|
|
The tent city cum-headquarters camp for the new general of the Potomac Army should have been something more than this. That was George Hazard's non-humble opinion as he tied his horse to a tree and walked to the tent nearest the flag pole, where the Stars and Stripes fluttered in the late summer breeze.
The few men in the area were casually dressed -- sitting, standing, playing cards, guitars or fiddles. They were within shouting distance of the front lines, yet the air of ease was relaxed. General Hazard found the scene amusing. His cousin, General Sheridan, was known as an unorthodox leader, but Grant went beyond anyone's expectations. Such laxity in the central military camp of the Union was a strange hallmark of General Ulysses S. Grant. Sam, as George called him, was a brilliant tactical general, but this lack of decorum was surprising, even though George himself had never been a spit and polish kind of officer.
The door to the large tent flapped open and shut with the fickle wind currents. Hazard peered inside. Doing paperwork at a small table was a young, dark-haired man, shirt sleeves rolled past the elbows. George glanced to the cot, the only other furniture in the room, and saw no hat or jacket to indicate rank.
The man turned and greeted him with a half-hearted salute. "Can I help you, soldier?"
"Yes. I'm to report to General Grant."
The Captain snapped to attention. "General Hazard?"
"At ease," Hazard responded.
The man relaxed. George held out a hand and the younger man came over and shook it. "Captain James West... General's aide. He's taking a nap right now and asked not to be disturbed. We had a late night of artillery exchange. But I can fill you in on his plan." He gestured for George to take the chair as he swept aside some papers and unrolled a map across the desk.
"The Rebs have us stalemated at this gorge between these two ridges. If we could get through there, we could set our artillery up on the high ground and drive the whole Confederate line south -- probably all the way to the river."
"Do you know which regiment?"
The keen question made West pause to study the new General for a moment. "Virginians are on the front lines."
Hazard flinched. Orry's army. How often would fate throw him across the battlefield from his friend? They could test their luck only so often, then it would run out. How long until one of them inadvertently killed the other? They wouldn't even know the terrible, ironic tragedy until after the war ended. So many times in this horrible conflict -- every battle -- friend killed friend; brother killed brother, cousin killed cousin.
West sighed quietly. "You know someone over there? Relation?"
"You could say. A friend closer than my own brother."
West nodded in sympathy.
"My greatest fear is that we'll end up killing each other."
"Probably happens a lot."
"You sound like you're lucky enough not to have any family or friends on the other side."
"Yep. Only child. And I learned early on that war is not a place to cultivate friendships." His face held a distant expression, the conviction of his tone faded to doubt, then to regret. "You can't count on anyone. They all die."
His words echoed with the pain of experience. George did not question the source. They all had losses and wounds.
West refocused on the map. "Anyway... what we need from you, sir, is some special armaments to smash the Reb blockade. It would take weeks to get the big guns up here. Then, they'd be so heavy, I doubt we could get them up the ridge. General Grant is an impatient man, as you know, and he wants this siege to end soon. If you could help us adapt your cannons, that might do the trick. Short-range... small, but powerful is what we need. Something we could get up the ridge with a few horses, then we could make some progress."
"You mean convert some of Hazard's artillery to a smaller size, Captain?"
"Yes. Not in the factory, but out here in the field."
George studied the map and pinched his lower lip as he thought out the proposition. "It's never been done before."
"That's why the General has assigned me as your personal assistant. I have a knack for improvisation and weaponry."
"Sounds like we could make this work."
West grinned. "We will make this work, sir, because General Grant said so."
"And what the General wants... "
"...the General gets," they both finished in unison.
"Let's go check out the terrain," West suggested as he grabbed his hat from under some papers. "Then I'll buy you a beer in town, if that's all right with you, General."
"Sounds like we're going to get along just fine, Captain West."
They galloped the horses past the camp toward the wooded hills occupied by the Union forces. The valley was dotted with ditches, shell holes, splintered trees and charred dirt. Scattered rifle fire, distant and sporadic, cracked in the afternoon air. Their course took them behind the artillery line, through several pickets, up into the steep, rocky high ground. West urged his horse on, and George spurred his mount to follow up on the hard trek. They stopped at the edge of a ridge and looked out at a lower ledge of land across the jagged gorge which served as the neutral ground for the two armies.
"On the other side of is a cliff face. Impossible to scale. That why the Rebel's aren't on our flank. We hold this ridge." He pulled out binoculars of an unusual design and handed them to George, then took out a similar pair from the saddlebags and looked himself. "You can see a few of their pickets up there, but it's of little use to them, so they don't waste the manpower."
"I suppose they tried."
"Sure, but they can't get their big guns through, either. And we're out of range of their artillery, even if they put it on the slope over there."
They dismounted and walked along the cliff as they studied the terrain. They spotted a few enemy positions, and they studied the sharp, rocky slope they had just come up. Several theories of pulleys, tracks and levers were discussed and dismissed as each officer offered tentative ideas on how to accomplish their assignment. It was finally decided they would work on modifying a short, small cannon, then bring it up on horseback and assemble it once it got here.
"That'll give us a busy week," West commented as he put away his binoculars.
"A week!"
"Didn't I mention that, sir? The General wants this done before Lee gets some reinforcements from Hood. That should be some time next week, according to our intelligence sources."
"A week!" George shook his head. "Impossible. We can't do it."
"You don't understand. General Grant wants it done. He's the commander. We find a way to make it happen."
"I know. Just how close are we to the enemy? Haven't they tried to out-flank you up here?"
"Of course. We've got strong picket lines, as you saw, coming up the two accessible sides of the hill. The other two sides, this one," he indicated the cliff that overlooked the Confederate lines, "and the south side," he swept his arm toward the right," are inaccessible rocky mountainsides."
"In other words, we'll have this place to ourselves to assemble the weapon."
"You'll see only Union blue up here, General Hazard."
George nodded his acceptance and did another quick survey of the area. He pulled out a paper and pencil and jotted notes of estimated distances and a small sketch of the terrain. After he was satisfied with the assessment, he wandered back to where West held the horses.
"How good are your sources?" he asked as he secured the materials in his saddlebags. He took a long drink of the water from his canteen.
West shrugged. "Don't know." He looked out at some distant point on the horizon. "Can't trust 'em anymore."
Some trace of -- bitterness? -- regret? -- in the voice made Hazard study his companion. "Could we ever?" he joked.
"Yeah. Once."
George knew better than to ask what tainted West's viewpoint. They all had too many ugly memories; pasts they would sooner forget, things they did not want to talk about with anyone. He handed the binoculars back to West, but the other captain waved them away.
"Keep 'em. You'll need them for this job."
"Best damn glasses I've ever seen. Custom made, definitely not army issue."
"No." West's blue eyes narrowed and he looked away. "I was holding them for a friend. He was with Pinkerton's people."
"The spies?"
"Yeah. He... won't need them anymore."
Hazard nodded. He wrapped the strap around the saddle horn. "Your friend's dead?"
West's jaw tightened. "I might never know. He was with Hancock at the 'wedge' during Gettysburg. Then he joined the Pinkerton spies. At the Wilderness he disappeared." He shrugged again, as if to brush off the loss, but the bitterness was still evident in his tone and anguished expression.
With sad sympathy, George nodded his understanding. The Battle of the Wilderness was a nightmare for both sides. Soldiers -- blue and gray -- were killed by the thousands. Horrible, close fighting within heavily wooded land had cost too much blood. Those who had not died of wounds had died from the terrible fires started by exploding shells. The fighting had gone on for days, and it had labeled General Grant a savage, merciless demon, although most commentator's safely back on the home front considered the disaster a Union victory. Hazard always felt that was because Grant had lost a few thousand less men than his opponents, but to countless families on both sides of the flag, it no longer mattered. Poor West, more than likely he would never know if his friend was killed -- burned alive like so many others, captured or maybe executed.
"Probably shot on the spot," West mused aloud, as if he had read Hazard's mind. "Spies don't carry identification and usually don't wear any uniform." He sighed and shook his head. "What the hell does it matter anyway?"
George gazed out at the distant ridge one last time, not seeing the landscape. Orry was somewhere over there. How would this mission affect him? The gun he was asked to build would blow the enemy to bits and, like West, he would probably never know the fate of a close brother. It was a damn ugly way to treat a friend.
West looped the rein up to the saddle horn and lithely mounted his horse. He tugged the muscled animal into a tight turn and then stopped. For a moment he looked into the forest to the north, then to the cliff edge to the south. The black gelding snorted with impatience and struggled against the tight rein. West firmly held him back, and the animal danced with nervousness.
"Mount up," West whispered as he leaned over to the side, ostensibly petting his horse's neck. "We've got visitors coming up on the south."
"Visitors?" George asked, automatically obeying the warning.
"Yeah. Old Duke here gets real nervous when he sniffs the Rebs. And it's sure as hell not our boys coming up that side."
Hazard leaped into the saddle and West kicked his mount into a trot toward the western slope. They reached an outcropping of rocks from there the land sloped sharply into a thick forest. West held up his hand.
"They're coming up this way too."
George nodded to the north, more steep than the western side they'd come up. "Over there?"
"It'll be hell on the horses, but we'll have to chance it. But not before we give ourselves a head start." He turned the big Duke back, close to the northern slope.
He reached into the saddlebags and drew out a flask. "Carry one?" he asked Hazard. He removed his scarf and soaked it with what smelled like rich Kentucky whiskey. Then West stuffed the scarf into the neck of the flask.
Like most officers, George had a similar container, and copied West's actions. The captain handed him several vestas.
"Wait till you see Reb gray, General, then light the scarf and throw it as hard as you can at their front men. Got it?"
"Yeah."
West put the vestas in his teeth and trotted over to the southern cliff. He edged close to the precipice, then struck a match. He held the alcohol-soaked rag and flask in one hand, the flame in the other, as he waited for Hazard to make a move. Just then, George saw the first Confederate hat top the western slope. He lit the rag and threw the bomb. West did the same and raced his horse past George at dead speed toward the northern woods. Two explosions reverberated behind them, followed by screams. Within seconds the sounds were smothered by the pounding hooves of their horses and crash of tree branches as they plowed through the treacherous forest.
West forged his own new trail down the grade. This side was a steeper angle, and the horses had to pick their way carefully over rocks and around trees. By the time they reached a semi-level path, the woods were thick and the ground covered with brilliantly colored autumn leaves. Behind Union lines, this trail lead into the nearest small town where the captain promised a hospitable tavern. Their pace was an easy gait through the thick foliage. They never saw the four gray-jacketed soldiers until the rebels fell from some branches directly in front of their mounts.
West's horse reared in surprise. Both officer's reached for their pistols, but two confederates came out of the bushes and thrust rifles into their sides.
"Don't make a move," came a southern voice from behind and to the left of Hazard.
George froze with shock.
"Now slowly pull your hands away from those guns, my fine Union captain and... by gum, a Yank general!" the voice drawled. "Now don't you officers move or my Virginia boys'll plug you with holes."
The man came around to the side of West and relieved him of his weapon. The white-hatted southern General then walked toward George. He looked up as he reached for the pistol. Hazard stared into the eyes of his friend, Orry Main. Orry stumbled, falling against the horse. He recovered quickly, placing his hand on the pistol. He hesitated, staring at his long-time friend.
"General?" called one of the men.
"Yes," Orry responded hoarsely. He took the gun and backed away from George.
"Now we can kill 'em," snarled one of the men.
"No!" Orry snapped.
"A dead Yankee is..."
"There will be no unnecessary killing!" Orry shouted angrily. His eyes never left Hazard. "They're our prisoners."
The six army men grumbled their dislike of the order, but nonetheless restrained from killing the blue coated enemies. The rifles were still trained on the prisoners when a horse and rider crunched through the dense leaves on the trail. All eyes turned to the aristocratic confederate officer with a dark, full-set of trim mustache and chin beard. He wore a white hat set at a jaunty angle and clean white gloves on his hands.
"Well done, General, I see you've made an excellent coup."
"Yes, thank you, General..."
"Gordon," the newcomer supplied in a cultured, slow drawl.
General Gordon's magnificent gray mount was spurred forward. He examined the two prisoners with patient, intense scrutiny. He rode close to West and stared hard at the young captain. With a riding crop he touched the open flap of the jacket.
"You'd think the Yankee's would be better dressed, I dare say," he accused acidly. "But then, I suppose we can't expect genteel behavior from General Grant's mob, can we, boys?"
"No, sir," several of the men muttered, eager to get in their own digs at the enemy.
General Gordon went so far as to brush at the blue Cavalry hat and the collar of West's shirt. Leaves and bits of tree branches fell off.
Orry momentarily shifted his attention from his friend to the General. "General," he addressed, "I didn't know you had arrived with the reinforcements so soon. Where's your escort?"
The General turned a harsh glare to the officer. "General...?
"Main, sir. General Orry Main."
Gordon inclined his head. His brown eyes were hard with censure. "I was not aware, General, that you needed to be informed of my movements!"
"Of course not, sir. I was just not aware..."
"Very well, then. Why are you men so far forward in enemy territory?"
"Reconnaissance, sir," Main replied.
"Well, then, General Main, carry on. I'm returning to General Lee's headquarters. I'll take these fine Yankee prizes back with me." He pulled a pistol from his holster.
"But sir...!" Orry sputtered.
"Are you questioning my authority? Do you need General Lee's word on my veracity?"
"No sir!" Orry snapped back. He glared at the General with challenge blazing in his eyes. "I question what a general is doing this far into enemy territory, all by himself."
Gordon's eyes narrowed into slits. "Let me ask you something," he began with a hard, clear tone. He leaned on the saddle horn and stared at the officer eye to eye. When he continued, his voice was low and intense, obviously meant for Orry's ears and not those of his men. "These prisoners," he flicked a quick glance to Hazard, "they're important to you, are they not?"
Main hesitated.
In a softer, quieter voice, the general asked, "They are important to you, aren't they, General Main?"
Orry nodded. "Yes, sir," he agreed slowly. He glanced from Hazard to West. "Yes, sir."
Gordon nodded slightly. "We all have important friends, General. Some wear Yankee blue. We can't really hold that against them, can we?"
Orry stared into the unflinching eyes, softened from the mention of bonds stretched across battle lines.
"No, sir," Orry agreed.
"Then I suggest you allow me to take charge of them," Gordon meaningfully ordered. "It is the best for everyone, don't you agree?"
Main looked at Hazard. He hesitated. George offered him a slight nod of understanding. No matter what decision Orry made, Hazard would accept it.
"They will be taken care of, I promise," Gordon coaxed.
Orry gave a salute and stepped back. "Yes, sir," he agreed and looked at his friend. "Yes, it's for the best."
"Thank you very much, General Main," the officer sincerely replied.
He took possession of the pistols and ordered the Yankee's to ride into the woods off the path. He offered a salute. Orry touched his hat in a casual acknowledgement. Just before the small party disappeared into the thick trees, George turned around. Orry gave him a sharp salute, then the Rebels curved onto another path and were gone.
The small party rode for several more minutes into the forest. When they weaved through the last line of trees and onto a small, narrow road, the Confederate general trotted ahead of Hazard and abreast of West. He handed a pistol back to the captain.
"I'll trade you, Jim," he said in a voice that sounded at home in Philadelphia, all trace of southern accent gone.
"I don't know," West returned in a cocky tone, "I kind of like this little derringer you slipped into my collar," he said as he pulled a small pistol from under his shirt.
"But that's..." His protest sputtered into a rueful awareness. "That's my best, Jim..." he smiled, "you had me there for a minute. Damn, it's great to see you!"
He leaned over to throw an arm around the captain, who returned the hug with back-thumping enthusiasm.
"Artie, I can't believe it! You're alive! How'd you find us?"
"It's a long and miserable tale, James. I suggest we retire to more friendly ground to share details."
To Hazard's amazement, the general stripped off the facial hair, the coat, gloves and hat, tucking them all into his saddlebags. From a second bag he pulled out a Union captain's jacket and unfolded a battered union cavalry hat. They galloped along the path, past several pickets, and finally back into Grant's camp.
Once in West's tent, they traded introductions and more back-slapping exchanges. Artemis Gordon pulled a bottle of Kentucky whiskey from his seemingly bottomless saddlebags. George was assigned procurement of three cups, which he easily acquired from lower-ranking men in nearby tents. Once settled with drinks, West asked for a more detailed explanation of his friend's appearance.
"I was in the Wilderness," Artemis Gordon slowly as he sipped the strong liquor. "It was hell on earth," he admitted quietly. "I ended up well behind enemy lines. I stole a horse and an officer's uniform and did what I do best, infiltrated the enemy. I've been with Lee's army for months. When I learned of Hood's imminent arrival, I decided it was time to come back and relate my intelligence. The quickest way through the lines was as a general, of course. And I am most familiar with my cousin, General Gordon, so I assumed his identity."
"Risky, Artie. Your cousin's well known by these men!"
"A hazard of the war," the affable spy replied. "No pun intended," he offered in a nod to George.
"Why did Orry... uh, General Main, give in so easily?" George wondered.
Gordon shrugged. "Easy. He knew I was phony."
"What!" West snapped.
"That's why he let you two go," he explained, amazed they hadn't caught on to what was clearly obvious to him. "He may know my cousin, or he may have encountered me in one of my other guises. He knew I was no southerner and I would be leading you to safety, Sir," he told Hazard. "It was obvious you two were friends. He knew if he complied with my request, I would get you back to our lines."
George shook his head in wonder. They had clashed before, he and Orry; blue and gray. Orry had given him his life back several times. He said he would never do it again, but he had.
"Why?" he pondered aloud.
"You're friends," was West's simple answer. "We're all patriotic to our causes, but we've all seen too much killing on both sides. When your friend had the opportunity to save a life important to him, he took it."
"Even though it went against his beliefs as a southern officer, patriotism was superceded by his brotherhood to you."
"He's a good man," George quietly affirmed. He hoped the time would soon come when they would meet again as comrades, not foes. He would thank Orry for remembering their shared past with stronger bonds than he recalled his officer's oath.
Artemis refilled their tin cups. "Then let's drink a toast to your good friend, General. Without whose cooperation, we would not be sitting here sharing these drinks."
The metal cups clinked together and the men drank in solemn silence. Each reflected, with much gratitude, on the strength of friendships.