Valley of the Shadow: A Novel (24 page)

A bugle sounded, followed by another.

“No,” Hayes said. “Alive.”

4:00 a.m.

The Valley Pike, north of Stephenson’s Depot

Men weren’t puking themselves belly-white anymore, and that was a kindness. The march the past evening had been the Devil’s own foot-burner, and many a man had staggered to the roadside, emptying himself from the wrong end, maybe even falling to his knees in a pagan mockery of prayer. “The wages of sin!” Elder Woodfin had cried, striding past those sickened by whiskey. “Hell’s going to stink a thousand times worse than your vomit.…”

Nichols had been proud, though, that of the men who’d indulged, only a handful had been from the 61st Georgia. And those men had paid a terrible price on the march, with the chaplain preaching that hellfire itself was rushing up their throats.

Nor had they been given time to sleep off their misery, for the brigade had stopped but three hours at Bunker Hill before the sergeants came hollering again and all but dragged weary men back onto the road, drunkards and those who had taken the Pledge alike. Now, with the pace yet another trial to foot and mortal spirit, empty-gutted men cursed themselves to damnation, but kept on going.

And a voice, solemn and terrible, had come out of the darkness after one of the chaplain’s sallies, the voice of good Lem Davis, who had not touched whiskey since the death of his wife and a child stillborn; Lem, who had not drunk one drop in Martinsburg; Lem, who had borne himself like a brawny Job, enduring: Lem had declared, “I have no fear of hellfire,” just that and not a word more. And nary a man had answered, for Lem’s tone had not asked, but Nichols had been glad that the chaplain had moved along to inspire some other company and had not heard Lem blaspheme, for he dreaded what else Lem might say, should he be admonished.

Who knew, from day to day, which man would pray and who would sink to outrage? So many things had grown changeable, and men had become as tetchy as wild beasts. It almost felt like a family nigh onto breaking up, threatening to go different ways for reasons that would not quite fit to words, maybe just the hand of the Lord at work, the Lord who commanded love but passed understanding. The men would fight, let no low wretch claim otherwise, but the days between the skirmishing had grown baneful, with flaring pride fading overnight into doubt. Maybe it was just that every last man was tired as a beast worked to its end.

Surely, they were weary men this night, hurrying through the darkness and the dust, hastening southward yet again, alert to every rumor coursing through the ranks, reading omens into each courier’s passing and yearning to see the expressions on the faces of Generals Gordon and Rodes as they trotted forward to cries of “Make way, you men, make way!” But there was no least light from above, nor burning bush nearby, only the hack of men clearing unsound lungs and the jostle and jangle of infantry, Georgia infantry, rushing it knew not where. Surely, word would come quickly, though, on a tide of shouted orders, for generals riding together at night’s bottom was a sign, even if they were famous friends, as Generals Gordon and Rodes were known to be.

Out there somewhere, waiting, lurked the Midianites.

In Martinsburg, Gordon had been as wrathful as Moses confronted with the Golden Calf, ready to smite, unlike himself in the fury and dread of his language, cursing the drunkards—his own men—who had shamed themselves, their officers, and the Confederacy. Not Sodom, not Gomorrah, had been so chastised. The general’s vocabulary would have made Lucifer blush, and no man, not one among them, had ever heard Gordon, a Christian man, speak thus. Elder Woodfin himself had been left speechless, as shocked as any soul, before Gordon marched them off at a murderous pace. And John Brown Gordon rode before them, a Joshua, hot and brooding, aflame with silence.

In the wake of a nothing-much scrap the week before, Nichols had gotten himself a new pair of shoes, assured by Elder Woodfin it was not theft to remove them from the dead Yankee, but good husbandry of which the Lord would approve, as he surely would lift the South up from its trials. Yet on this march neither shoes nor prayer saved a man’s feet from aching sorely. The brigade had rushed to Martinsburg and now was rushing back, but the rushing northward had been done in good-enough spirits, while this sour-bellied return boded no good.

“Going to be a fight,” Dan Frawley said. “A man can smell it.”

Sergeant Alderman told them all, “Only thing I smell is the unwashed manhood of Georgia. Y’all keep marching.”

6:00 a.m.

Locke’s Ford, five miles north of Sheridan’s main attack

Burnished by the early morning light, his favorite scout reported: “Won’t be no surprising them, General. They’re up wide-eyed and looking. Got them some sharpshooters this side of the creek, up by that old cabin, on the ridge there. They’re on the lookout.”

“Far bank?” Custer asked.

“Far bank’s higher.”

“I can see that.”

“Got rifle pits low down, near on the creek, but most of them’s up top, hid in the trees. Fence rails piled up. And you’ve got to cross you a down-running field before you reach the creek, all open shooting. Ground favors the Johnnies.”

“How far? In the open?”

“Sixty, seventy yards. Varies a bit.”

“How many of them?”

“Maybe a bled-out regiment.”

We’ll have the sun at our backs, Custer thought. And in their eyes.

“Good work, Sergeant Willoughby.” Custer turned back to the line of trees concealing his brigade and made straight for the 6th Michigan. The regiment’s colonel was yellow as a Chinaman with jaundice, but Kidd had refused to leave his command today.

They all sensed something momentous.

“Colonel Kidd!” the young brigadier called out. “Hot work!”

Kidd saluted. By the look of him, the colonel might well collapse, but Custer wasn’t going to order any man out of a battle who wanted to fight.

“Forward to the next tree line. Dismount there. You’ll see a shack and some sheds up across a field, place stinks of Rebs. Have your scalawags rush them and drive them out.”

“Right, sir.” Kidd drew off his riding gauntlets and tucked them into his blouse. His hand came to rest on his holster. “With your permission?”

Custer nodded. “I want you dismounted, too, Jim.”

Kidd waved his command forward, one of the Michigan Brigade’s bloodied, brilliant regiments. Custer joined them.

In a mere brace of minutes, the 6th was on foot and snapping their Spencer carbines to life.

Leaning down from the saddle, Custer asked, “See the cabin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s go.”

The colonel looked up at him.

Custer grinned. “Wouldn’t miss this for all the tea in China, Jimmy.” Keeping to his saddle, he drew his saber with a practiced, gorgeous motion. “Don’t mind company, do you?”

“I don’t imagine I really have a choice,” Kidd answered fondly. Turning to his men, the colonel shouted, “Wolverines! Open order! Forward!”

The men moved out, piercing the last fringe of trees and trotting up across a fallow field in bands of skirmishers, trained for independent action and no drill-book infantry nonsense.

The Rebs opened fire, sharpshooters up by the cabin and a few outbuildings. From across the creek, a greater number of rifles added support. Men in cavalry jackets dropped, and for a dangerous instant, the advancing troopers wavered.

Kidd ran ahead, shouting, “Come on, boys, and damn them!”

Custer pranced out in front of them all, long hair flapping and red scarf trailing over his velvet collar, seemingly amused by the hiss of bullets. “Another stripe for the man who takes their coffeepot! I’m thirsty, you Wolverines!”

Led by their colonel, the men surged across the field, howling the brigade’s own battle yell. Custer rode with them, leaping his horse across a stone wall and making straight for the cabin.

A few Rebs stayed too long and fell. The rest ran.

Custer pulled his horse around and located Kidd. “Well done, Jimmy, well done! Now you put those Spencers to work, keep the devils over there occupied.”

He was about to ride back to his waiting brigade, to organize the next phase of his attack, when a rust-whiskered sergeant marched up, shoving a prisoner.

“Your pardon, sir, but coffee there weren’t. Only this dirty dog and a lovely rifle.” He pronounced the last word “roy-fool,” Irish as a shamrock on St. Paddy’s Day.

Custer nodded his thanks, but quickly turned his attention to the prisoner. The fellow looked as wild and filthy as some desert prophet, with dark eyes that stabbed and ragged trousers that ended at midcalf, revealing starved legs. Custer could smell him from six feet away.

The remains of the fellow’s tunic were so discolored that Custer had almost missed the rank on one sleeve.

“Well, Corporal, hard luck,” Custer said. “Who do you march with?”

The fellow was not above a wry smile. He wanted a few more teeth. “Reckon I’ll be marching under some back-of-the-army Yankee soon enough.”

“I’d reckon that, too. Who
did
you march with?”

“General Breckinridge. Darn proud of it.”

A lively duel had sprung up above the creek.

“Fine officer, General Breckinridge,” Custer said. “I believe he means me some ill this morning, though, so with your permission…” He touched his hat in a friendly salute.

But if he was done with the prisoner, the Reb wasn’t done with him.

“You Custer?” the Johnny called out.

“Sure, and that’s
General
Custer,” the sergeant admonished him.

Custer grandly swept off his hat and made his stallion rear.

“Ain’t he sumpin?” the prisoner said.

*   *   *

Custer called forward his 7th Michigan and the 25th New York, a regiment newly assigned to his brigade to rebuild its strength.

Lieutenant Colonel Brewer of the 7th and the eager Major Seymour of the New Yorkers rode up and awaited orders. Custer noted that Seymour’s men had adopted the red scarves of his Michiganders.

“Mel,” he told Brewer, “your regiment leads. Column of fours until you pass the hill where Jimmy’s boys are potting away, then wheel them into formation for a quick charge across that creek. May have to dismount some men, once you make the other bank. Get on their flanks, root the devils out, if they won’t run. You might want—”

“Sir, if I may?” the New Yorkers’ commander interrupted.

“You’ll follow Mel’s outfit,” Custer said. “I was getting around to you.”

Seymour squared his shoulders. “Sir … given that this is our first proper engagement since my regiment was privileged to join your brigade…”

Oh, here it comes, Custer thought. But better too much spirit than too little.

“I request the honor of leading this attack. My men wish to show their mettle.”

Custer looked at Mel Brewer, who shrugged. Mel had led his share of attacks and more.

“Splendid, then!” Custer told his newest subordinate. “Don’t fuss. Move fast and get across that creek. Then dismount and get up the hillside on their flanks.”

Beaming, Seymour saluted and yanked his horse about, too excited to wait for his dismissal.

Custer met Brewer’s eyes. Each man lifted an eyebrow.

“Prop him up, if he needs it,” Custer said. “If he lives through the day, I don’t doubt he’ll do fine.”

“Aye, sir. We’ll do what’s to be done.”

“Off you go, then.”

“Sir? Don’t you think we should be hearing cannon? If Sheridan’s going at them? It’s five miles distance, and not a mile more.”

Brewer was right, Custer realized. But he refused to be daunted. Brightening, he said, “Well, bully for the cavalry, if we get to Winchester first! Go on now, Mel.”

Brewer saluted and returned to his men. Seymour’s New Yorkers came forward in column, uniforms unweathered and Spencers braced on their thighs.

Abreast of Custer, Seymour shouted, “At a canter … for
ward
!”

After waving his newest troopers along, Custer turned to ride back to Jim Kidd’s perch to watch the fight. The morning’s ration of drollery had been fully consumed, and it was time for him to oversee his brigade and behave himself.

But he would have preferred to be the first across Opequon Creek. Nothing like a mounted charge in the morning.

He dispatched a rider to fetch Pete Stagg, commander of the 1st Michigan, his favorite regiment and his reserve this day. If any problems developed now, he didn’t want to waste time explaining things. Pete could take things in with his own eyes.

Meanwhile, Custer rode on alone, recrossing the field that had seen the first attack. Old, crushed furrows were straddled by a body or two, and wounded men who could walk trudged toward the rear. Gaining the crest near the cabin, he remained mounted, the better to see. And the better to be seen.

Custer watched the New Yorkers swing around the hill and leave cover, followed by the 7th Michigan. Bugles sounded the charge too soon, before the New Yorkers had wheeled from their column into lines by battalion. Their order broke as they tried to execute the close maneuver at a gallop. Ragged clusters of horses and riders plunged down the slope toward the drop to the creekbed.

Pete Stagg rode up, accompanied by his two field officers, George Maxwell and Tom Howrigan. If that sergeant had been as Irish as poteen, Howrigan had still more of the green about him, a lovely, raw man.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Howrigan said, “what are those buggers about?”

The men watched as Seymour’s New Yorkers splashed into the creek, only to be met by a nasty volley that made them pause when they should have dashed ahead.

The Rebel firing was a serious business and a deadly one, and the riders milling about in the creek, popping away with their Spencers from the saddle, merely offered themselves as targets. Then somebody sounded “Recall,” and instead of rushing the far bank, the forward-most troopers spurred their mounts to the rear.

The sun caught their wet brass and steel amid clots of mud thrown upward from the bank.

Worsening matters, the retreating New Yorkers galloped into the 7th Michigan, throwing Mel Brewer’s own attack into chaos.