A Deeper Sense of Loyalty (27 page)

James could not help wondering why men could not resolve their differences with words instead of weapons. Of course, everyone would say that they tried and failed. But if it were so, the men would not have to worry about being on the next day's list. They could just get up in the morning and go home, and that was all they really wanted to do. But it would not happen that way, James thought. They would get up in the morning and kill each other.

On the overcast morning of July 1
st
, the Union troopers rolled out of their blankets in time to swallow a hasty cup of coffee. By seven a.m. they had mounted their horses and ridden five hundred yards farther west. There, they were ordered to dismount and were then deployed by General Buford. James was in the 1
st
Brigade commanded by Colonel William Gamble, which was placed along the east bank of a sluggish little stream called Willoughby Run. Their line extended for a thousand yards from a rail bed south across the Chambersburg Pike. James grabbed his breech loaded carbine and was preparing to take his place in line when an unmistakable voice called his name. He spun around, and there stood General Buford. James knew enough not to salute lest an advance enemy scout should see it and take aim at the general. He ran over to where the commander stood. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Very soon now, Major General Henry Heth's division will be coming over Herr Ridge, about nine hundred yards out in front of us. It will be your responsibility to give the command for this brigade to open fire. When the Confederates are in range, Lieutenant Calef's battery of horse artillery will open on them. That will be your signal. After the first salvo, give the command. I have sent an urgent message to General Reynolds to come up fast with reinforcements. It will take time. We have less than three thousand troopers spread out thin across this line. General Heth's strength is estimated at over seven thousand. We must hold here until support comes up.”

“We will keep them entertained, General,” said James. Buford clapped a hand on James's shoulder in an avuncular gesture, mounted his horse and headed back to Seminary Ridge.

James took his position and fixed his sight on Herr Ridge. It was just past seven thirty. He was geared for action, anchored by the words of General Buford. The phrase “Must hold here,” echoed through his mind. This fight must not turn out as previous engagements had. This time, the Army of Northern Virginia had dared to encroach upon Northern soil. They must not get a foothold here, James thought; they must be whipped.

At eight a.m. Heth's division came into view and marched boldly down Herr Ridge toward Willoughby Run. The Union troopers could see their bayonets shining under the sun, now breaking through the overcast. Without turning his head, James called words of encouragement to the men on his left and right.

“Steady, boys, steady. Every shot drops a man. Here they come now.”

Suddenly the Confederate lines were staggered by a blast of artillery fire and at the top of his lungs James yelled, “Fire!” Thousands of rounds tore through the Confederate ranks as the Federals fired furiously. For a full two hours, Buford's dismounted cavalry held up Heth's advance.

By ten o'clock, James's comrades were beginning to give way as the enemy tried to push them back across the little stream. But the young lieutenant was determined to hold his ground. Men on both sides of him were falling but he was not deterred. Finally, Sergeant Patrick McClure came up from behind and grabbed him by the arm. “Look, Lieutenant, look yonder.” James turned and saw two brigades of Brigadier General Wadsworth's 1
st
Division running toward the Union line. “We did it, by God, we did it!” James shouted.

As more fresh troops arrived, General Buford's cavalry was ordered back into reserve. For the remainder of the day, the troopers rested while fighting raged in nearly every direction around the town of Gettysburg. It was difficult to ascertain if either side was gaining the upper hand until the afternoon of July 3
rd
, when that uncertainty disappeared.

The Union army still held the high ground; Big Round Top, Little Round Top, and Culp's Hill. The center of the line was Cemetery Ridge. At eleven a.m. the fighting on Culp's Hill came to an end. An oppressive silence fell over the field creating a striking contrast to the sounds of battle that had dominated the previous two days. The withering summer heat and the smothering humidity, as well as the fighting, had beaten down the soldiers.

Then, at exactly one p.m., the roar of artillery shattered the silence as one hundred and seventy rebel cannons began firing from a point approximately a mile across open ground from Cemetery Ridge. For an hour and a half, the magnificent cannonade pounded the Union defenses. In the woods behind the line of artillery, fifteen thousand Rebel infantry were forming their lines of battle.

At two-thirty the firing ceased, and at three o'clock, the attacking forces stepped out of the trees. What followed next was perhaps the most shameful waste of veteran soldiers since the ill fated federal assaults against Marye's Heights at Fredericksburg

The Confederate ranks were first decimated by long range artillery fire. When they reached Emmitsburg Road, more than five thousand Union infantry cut down huge numbers with small arms fire. All of the Rebels who breeched the Federal line were killed or captured, and when the battle was over, the Northern army had finally achieved a decisive victory. Although the cost was high on both sides, the difference would prove to be the inability of the South to replace their losses. The following afternoon, in the pouring rain, the Army of Northern Virginia, in a column that stretched for seventeen miles, headed back to Virginia. The Confederate army never invaded Northern soil again.

 

TWENTY-ONE

 

Shot by a Dead Man

 

 

Although General Meade had performed well at Gettysburg, like his predecessors, he, too, possessed the same talent for raising the ire of President Lincoln. Meade was exhausted from ten days of sleepless nights, no regular food, and high mental stress. Lincoln was pleased by the great victory but he wanted the army to move against Lee and destroy his army before it could cross the Potomac River. Meade was in no hurry to comply. On July 4
th
, the Army of the Potomac was enjoying a well deserved rest and taking its time preparing to head south after the Confederates.

Following morning mess, James rode out across the field where the last Confederate charge had been made to survey the carnage. Everywhere, the wreckage of battle covered the ground: broken limbers, dismounted guns, torn and tattered equipment, rifles, sabers, bayonets, bent and twisted by the mayhem, dead horses swelling in the summer heat, and covering everything, hugging the ground like a fog, the nauseating stench of decaying soldiers. The wounded had walked, crawled, or been carried from the field, but the dead remained, almost disrespected or unappreciated now that they had given their all. Who would care for so many and would their families ever know from where they never returned? James realized that the task of burying the dead was monumental. Perhaps at least to an extent, the problem would be for the citizens of Gettysburg to solve.

James had seen enough. He turned his horse and started back at a walk. The look see had taken him as far as the woods from where the Confederates had begun their advance. When he got back to the area that had been occupied by the Rebel artillery, he stopped, listening. Was it a muffled voice or had he just imagined it? Then he heard it again. Someone was asking for water. About ten feet to his right was the wreckage of a cannon and limber. Six or eight bodies were strewn around the emplacement. One man was underneath the ammunition box, which had been knocked free from the wheels of the limber and was propped against the axle forming a lean-to. James dismounted, and as he walked toward the broken limber he saw the man beneath the wreckage move a leg.

He went back to his horse, retrieved his canteen, and then walked around behind the limber so he would be near the wounded man's head. At the sound of footsteps, the injured Rebel opened his eyes. James could read the terrible pain on the soldier's face as he knelt down beside him, lifted his head, and gave him water. Underneath all the dirt and powder smoke, it was obvious that the man was really just a boy; a boy he seemed to recognize. It was not easy for the soldier to take the water because it made him cough, and when he coughed he spit up blood. His wound was in the stomach and it was serious. Then the young soldier in the uniform of the 59
th
Georgia cried out that his insides were on fire and the sound of his voice sent a shock wave through James's whole body.

“My God!” he said out loud. “You're Jefferson Langdon.”

Jefferson was his Uncle Joseph's youngest son and he was only about seventeen by now. The young man seemed to be resting a bit easier. James feared he was dying.

“Jefferson.”

He opened his eyes again when he heard his name.

“Jefferson, it's James . . . your cousin, James.”

A slight smile parted his lips.

“James, is it really you?”

“Yes, Jeff, it's really me.”

“But . . . you're a Yank. My cousin, James, couldn't be a damn Yank.”

The surprise was obvious but he did not speak with anger in his voice; it was rather matter of fact. “My father told me once that he didn't think that you would ever fight for the South. He said that you were a nigger lover at heart. But none of us thought you would ever join the Yankees.”

“Let's not talk about that now. I've got to get you to a doctor.”

“No! No, James, don't move me. It hurts too much and anyway, I'm gut shot. You know nobody survives if they're gut shot. Just stay with me, James. If I have to die I don't want to die alone. Stay with me and keep me company.”

Going against his will and better judgment, James said, “OK, Jeff. I'll stay with you.”

With great difficulty, Jefferson insisted that he be allowed to talk. James listened intently but much of what he heard was not good.

“My brother Franklin and I joined up in June of '61. Neither of us was old enough. Mother was against it but father said the war wouldn't last long and he wasn't going to deny us our moment of glory. You can see how glorious it turned out. Franklin lost a leg at Manassas and he's been home ever since. Uncle Stanley's boys, Clark and Jessie, were with A.P. Hill's Corps at Antietam. Clark was killed near Burnside Bridge and Jessie was wounded. He was home for a while, and then he went back. No one has heard from him since. I saw your parents some months back when I was home. Your father is near crippled with his bad leg and can't get around without a crutch. And your mother, James . . . your mother is not so good. She's confined to bed. Your sisters are taking care of her, but she isn't well. I'm sorry the news is bad. Nothing is turning out like we figured; all this stuff about glory. There isn't much glory in seeing a man with his guts hanging out. It's all going to hell on us no matter which side you're on.”

An hour earlier James would have given anything to know how his family was doing. Now he thought he would give anything if he could just forget. For a long time he had worried that his parents' health was not good. Now he knew for sure. He felt sick inside. He felt like he was being punished for his beliefs. But, he also understood that war meant sacrifice. No matter what he had done, his cousin Clark would still be dead, Franklin would still be missing a leg, his mother would still be sick, and Jefferson would still be lying in front of him, dying. Jefferson started to cough again; his blood sprayed James's face. He fell silent; James thought he was dead. He pressed a finger to his cousin's throat. His pulse still felt strong. He had only lost consciousness. James was in a panic. He shouldn't have waited as Jefferson had insisted. Maybe there was still time to get him to a doctor, he thought. James hurried to his horse, paying no attention to the other Rebels. The moment James's backside hit the saddle, a shot rang out, and a bullet knocked him to the ground. He hit hard and rolled three times, ending up on his back. He laid there in shock, confused as to exactly what had happened. At the very edge of his memory was the suggestion that he'd heard a gunshot. There was an awful pain in his head and he could not bring his eyesight into focus.

About a hundred yards away, a sergeant who was out on the field looking for souvenirs as soldiers often do, heard the shot and galloped over to where James had fallen. The sergeant jumped off his horse with a revolver cocked and ready. He quickly checked the area then bent down over James and said, “Lieutenant, can you hear me?”

 

 

The voice came to James's ears as if in a dream. His head was pounding and his vision was so blurry that the sergeant appeared to be at least three people hovering over him. Again the sergeant said, “Can you hear me, Lieutenant?”

“I hear you but I can't see you clearly. What happened?”

“As near as I can tell, you've been shot by a dead man. There's a Reb lying over by the wheel of that limber. He's dead but his body is warm and the pistol in his hand was just fired. He must have had enough left to pull the trigger and that was all.”

“Another man,” said James, “under the limber. My cousin, Jeff . . . needs a doctor.”

The sergeant went over to the wreckage for a moment then returned.

“You're right, sir, there's a live one over there. His belly wound looks bad.”

“Needs a doctor,” said James. “Got to get a doctor.”

“You need a doctor, too, Lieutenant. That bullet plowed a furrow on the right side of your skull. I'll get you to the field hospital and tell them to send help for the Reb. Let me get you up now.”

The sergeant, fortunately a husky fellow, pulled James to his feet. His knees were weak and he could hardly lock them to stand up. With some difficulty, the sergeant heaved him into the saddle and grabbed a fistful of his jacket, holding on until he could steady himself. “I'll lead your horse, Lieutenant. “Can you hang on?”