The Confederate Read online

  Case shrugged and stood over Billy. “How’s the arm, Billy?”

  Billy flexed the arm. A bandage was wrapped round the upper part of it, concealing the gouge the Minié ball had plowed on its passage through it. It hadn’t become infected, thankfully, and it looked like Billy would keep the arm. Some of their comrades hadn’t been so lucky so far. Arms or legs had been removed by surgeons after infections had set in. It was hardly surprising; many men cleaned their weapons with urine, finding that it was one of the best fluids for getting rid of the black powder that clogged up barrels after a fight. And, besides, it was plentiful and cost nothing to use. It was something the army sutlers couldn’t charge the poor infantrymen for. Billy had reported for duty the moment he had been treated and the surgeon, wanting to treat more badly hurt men, hadn’t complained. Besides, men were in short supply and General Lee needed every man available to fight the enemy in the coming battle.

  The company had lost four men at South Mountain in the flight from the battlefield, all of whom were possibly prisoner, and five more had been wounded. All of the five hadn’t been too badly hurt and were raring to have a go at Yankee again. They had been lucky; the Confederacy had been badly hurt in keeping McClellan’s army from sweeping down and capturing most of the Army of Northern Virginia, but the sacrifice had been worth it; the Rebel army was intact and now had turned to face the approaching Union forces at Sharpsburg, ready to lock horns once more.

  Case looked out over the ground they were occupying, just outside the limits of the town. They were on the right flank of the Southern army, as part of Brigadier General David Rumph Jones’ division. Their particular brigade, Kemper’s Brigade, was commanded by Brigadier General James Lawson Kemper, a man they had the highest regard for. Lawson, a long bearded man of impatient but brave temperament, had been with them throughout the campaigns outside Richmond earlier that year, and now commanded them here.

  Kemper’s brigade, still recovering from the mauling at the hands of the Pennsylvanians, had five regiments - all Virginians; the 1st, 7th, 11th, 17th and 24th. They knew each other well and relied on each other to do their jobs well, which they had so far. The brigade was posted out on the right because they had been in battle just two days back and were still recovering. Case stood and looked along the long line of men stretching northwards along the Harper’s Ferry-Hagerstown road. Just to their south, on the extreme right of the army, were the men of Brigadier John G. Walker’s division. Then, immediately to the left of Kemper’s division, occupying the northern outskirts of Sharpsburg, were the divisions under Anderson and Daniel Hill.

  Beyond them, hidden in the western woods on the western side of the road, were the men under General ‘Stonewall’ Jackson; McLaws’, Hood’s and Lawton’s divisions. Finally, holding the extreme left was Brigadier John Robert Jones’ division which included the old ‘Stonewall’ brigade. “What you thinkin’, Sarge?” Billy asked.

  “Tomorrow will be a tough one, Billy. Yankee will hit us hard, mark my words. They want revenge for Manassas.” Manassas had been a complete victory for the South; it had led to General McClellan being reappointed commander and the man who had built the Northern Army of the Potomac was once more in charge. Once again McClellan would try to best his chief adversary, Robert E. Lee.

  “Think we’ll be in the action?”

  “Perhaps.” Case looked to the east. The land fell away down towards the Antietam Creek. A stone bridge crossed the creek ahead at the bottom of the slope, nearly a mile away. Two orchards stood to the left of the road that led down to it while a couple of cornfields swayed in the breeze to the right. It was September and corn was ready to be harvested. Let us get our business done first here, Case thought. Our blood will enrich the earth, as blood always will.

  If they were to see action, then either the entire left and center of Lee’s army would have to crumble, or the Yankees would have to send units over the bridge and up the slope at them. Either way, the battle would be well under way before they were pulled into it. Time enough to be prepared, but they were weak and still recovering from the last fight. Their job was to cover the right and hopefully not be needed.

  The rest of the platoon was camped along the same stretch of grass. Not many of them left now. Thirteen others and that was all. The rest were dead, invalided out or prisoner. Or, in Captain Skivenham’s case, promoted to company commander. Any more losses and we’d be put into one squad, Case thought. The same situation existed for the other two platoons too. Their losses weren’t being made up by new recruits or replacements since, as Robert E. Lee has pointed out to Case back before they went to war, ‘J’ Company didn’t officially exist on records. Lee had paid for the company to be formed but he couldn’t be seen to favor anyone so it didn’t exist. Not officially.

  Case didn’t mind. In his long time, he’d never wished to be recognized on paper, and in any case, it might lead to complications. He tried damned hard to hide his existence and if his name came up on any official records, questions might be asked. Both from those who studied history and, more importantly, from the cursed Brotherhood of the Lamb. The Brotherhood who hunted him and were hard on his tail. Any mention of him in any records and they’d be swarming over him like flies on shit. A pox on them.

  So to belong to a unit that didn’t exist was perfect. After the war he would go to ground somewhere with Liz, his woman. At remembering her name, he frowned. He hadn’t heard from her for a while and worried something had gone wrong. With the Brotherhood sniffing round Richmond where she was living, that was a worry. He’d have to write again. He hoped to hell she was okay.

  * * *

  Liz shivered. The temperature in the cellar she was a prisoner in was becoming colder with the coming of autumn. It had been warm enough in the summer but now she was finding it uncomfortably cool; and much worse at night. She was kept in the dark except for one candle a day that soon burned out, and her one meal a day was the only contact she had with anyone else.

  John, that was the man’s name. A tall man with a mole on his face. She didn’t know why her sister Ann was helping him, but he was a horrible man who wanted to capture Case, her man. John was using her as bait. She was sure Case would come and free her and take care of John, but when she didn’t know.

  He was now standing at the top of the short flight of stone steps that led from the cellar floor up to the only way out, a stout door that was locked from the outside. John Smith stood staring at her, wondering what the Beast Longinus saw in her. There again, he understood little the desire of men to remain with women they copulated with; to him, women were objects to sate one’s desire on then leave. If they fell pregnant, then that was their problem, not his. He was only staying with Ann Brady for the moment because she was useful to him. As soon as she had outlived that usefulness, he would leave her or kill her. The only complication was if she fell pregnant, then that might force his hand sooner rather than later.

  He was becoming impatient at the delay in locating and capturing Longinus. The Colonel who was operating within the Union forces so far had failed to capture the Beast. Perhaps this time he would, as word had come to him via the network of agents he’d set up in Virginia that the Southern army was cornered at Sharpsburg and now was the time to destroy them. And if that was achieved, Longinus would not have the protection of the Rebel army and would be taken for the Brotherhood to keep for good.

  Until the Second Coming, when the Brotherhood knew Jesus was to meet with the cursed Longinus again.

  Smith smiled and turned his back on the stinking, filthy prisoner. The sooner he was free of these two creatures the better. He was looking forward to killing them. That gave him more of a thrill than sexual satisfaction with the clinging Ann. Why sex with her made her think he would be with her for life baffled him. Nothing was permanent - except death.

  CHAPTER THREE

  They were up early the next morning. Captain Skivenham walked along the front of the two rows of men snapping out orders to
stand and wait but be alert. The Yankees were coming and it was up to the Army of Northern Virginia to stop them. Far away to the left movement could be seen from the direction of the enemy. The first units were stirring and advancing, even though it was only just daylight.

  Officers galloped back and forth, sending up dust clouds and their nervousness was transmitted to the men. Case looked at his men and stepped forward one pace. “Boys, we whipped them at Richmond, didn’t we? We whipped them twice at Manassas, and we’ll sure as hell whip them today!”

  The men smiled and nodded, but the doubt was in their eyes. He could see that. The defeat at South Mountain had brought a vulnerability to them they hadn’t had before, and their losses had hit them hard. Ben Schaffer had been a popular member of their small group and his disappearance ate at them.

  Sounds of shots attracted their attention and necks craned to the left. Far off, just over two miles to the north, blue figures could be seen advancing through a cornfield, enduring shot and shell and still coming on. To the rear and sweeping round in a huge arc, more columns of blue could be seen forming up, some almost opposite their position on the other side of the creek.

  The deep throated roar of cannon punctuated the air and the lighter crack of rifle fire rattled in a continuous sound. Case sauntered to the front of the three squads and faced them all. “You’ve fought many times, boys. You know how to beat these people. Stand firm, make every shot count. You know the drill, you’re experienced enough. Today we’re at the end of the line so Yankee will be tired out by the time he comes to us. You’ll be fresh.”

  The men fidgeted. Even though they were tired and hungry, and miles from home, they wanted to be part of what was happening way to the north. The sound of firing increased, and more men advanced into the hail of shot pouring from the Confederate lines opposite.

  “Looks like Stonewall’s up against it,” Private Robert Passmore of ‘A’ squad muttered.

  * * *

  Far to the rear of the advancing Union troops General George Brinton McClellan stood with a telescope to his eye. He watched as the right flank under ‘Fighting Joe’ Hooker advanced towards the divisions of Jones and Lawton. He grunted in satisfaction and turned to his other corps commanders. “Gentlemen,” he said deeply, “today we sweep up Lee’s army in one huge movement. We shall hit him hard on all fronts so he cannot move his reserves to counter our attacks.”

  His plan was grand indeed; to pin the left and center while his left flank under the command of General Ambrose Burnside swung round and crushed the Confederate right, driving it in on the center and catching the enemy in a huge pincer movement. It all depended on timing. His corps were to advance one after the other from right to left, so the Rebels would be increasingly drawn into the struggle for the battlefield and then hit by the sucker punch. He waved his commanders off to their tasks. Burnside, smarting from his perceived demotion from commander of the ‘Right Wing’ to just one mere corps, sulked on his way to his command post. McClellan obviously had no confidence in him. Well, why should he move heaven and earth for such a man? He would take his time.

  Things were going badly for the Southern troops against Hooker’s assault. Both Jones and Lawton’s men were being thrown back, many of them not making it. General Thomas Jackson saw the collapse of his left happening and realized he had to do something quick. He sent out orders to John Hood to launch a counter-attack. Hood was a very aggressive man and his Texans knew no fear. If anyone could stop the Union troops, Hood would be the one. Hood’s counter attack was vicious and a close range fire fight commenced. Brain cases exploded, chests imploded and limbs were mutilated by point blank shooting. Bodies piled up on both sides and after thirty minutes the counter attack had shot itself to a halt, but Hood’s men had done the trick; Hooker’s corps had been halted, exhausted.

  But now Mansfield’s men began advancing through the East Woods towards the remnants of Jackson’s Wing. Major General Joseph King Fenno Mansfield commanded two divisions and confidently expected to push past what remained of the Confederate left. He was surprised to see Major General Joseph Hooker come riding across to him, wild-eyed and animated. “Sir, you must support my First Corps!” Hooker pleaded, “the Rebels have broken them! Adopt a defensive posture in the woods and you shall stop them in their tracks! You must allow my troops to reorganize or I fear they may be destroyed.”

  Mansfield hesitated. This wasn’t what had been planned by McClellan; still, he had to help his colleague, so he rode hard for the advancing troops of Alpheus Starkey’s 1st Division, men from the 10th Maine regiment. He shouted orders to turn to the woods. At that moment rifle fire broke out and Mansfield, spotting troops closing in, screamed to his men to stop firing. “They’re Hooker’s men!”

  “Sir, they are not!” a lieutenant replied urgently, pointing. “They are Rebs!”

  Another burst of fire rattled out from the advancing troops and Mansfield gasped, clutching his chest. He slid off his horse into the shocked arms of the lieutenant, John McGould, his coat turning red. “I shall not live!” Mansfield gasped.

  McGould yelled for help, holding the groaning corps commander while his troops traded shots with the Georgian troops that had hit the general. Confusion reigned and the hoped for attack from Mansfield’s Corps never happened, saving the left flank of the savaged Confederate troops.

  McClellan cursed and voiced aloud a demand to know what was going on. “Sir, the Second Corps are about to attack the enemy center,” an adjutant said excitedly.

  “Very well,” McClellan said, worried that his plan was unraveling. He hadn’t defeated the left, but maybe Major General Edwin Sumner’s men would shatter the Confederate middle and split the army in two. If so, then they could be easily rolled up. “Order Ambrose’s men to cross the creek and advance on the Rebel right. I don’t want any reinforcements propping up their center. We have them!”

  But Ambrose was slow in getting started. As a result Sedgwick’s men advanced alone, but they faced only Daniel Hill’s men, a single division, and one moreover one that had been hit hard at South Mountain and was hugely depleted. Two Union divisions closed in on them.

  General Robert Edward Lee saw the danger. He turned to his staff. “Do we have any reserves to support Hill?”

  “McLaws division, General,” a lieutenant answered hesitantly, “but that’s it.”

  “We need more men if we’re to stop them there.” Lee thought for a moment. He issued more orders. It had to be done or else the middle might be lost.

  Case watched the developing battle from his position on top of the slope, then was distracted by the sound of galloping and a horseman raced behind him to the right to the staff tent of Brigadier General John Walker. To Case’s amazement orders were barked and the entire division suddenly turned, picked up its equipment and began marching away into Sharpsburg. The men looked about in shock. Now they were alone, a single half strength division holding the right flank, and ahead they could see an entire corps making their way towards the stone bridge that crossed the creek. They would have to face three full strength Union divisions on their own.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “This is madness!” Llewellyn voiced all their concerns. “Look down there!” he pointed down the long slope to the little bridge, half seen amongst the thick woods that lined Antietam Creek. Coming straight for the bridge they estimated were eight brigades of Yankee troops with artillery support; facing them were six under strength Confederate brigades, the only line of defense before Sharpsburg. “How are we supposed to stop that lot?”

  Case pondered on the problem; they were outnumbered and outgunned. Unless they got help from somewhere he couldn’t see how the advancing Union force could possibly be stopped. Delayed perhaps, but not stopped. With Walker’s division sent to help the center, they were out on a limb on their own. Case glanced to his right. There were no soldiers there at all. He was the last man on the entire line of soldiers struggling over this piece of land, and it looked like
the enemy advance would hook round and outflank him. He was right in the path of a corps’ advance and he wasn’t amused.

  Captain Skivenham looked as worried as Case felt. His company would be crushed in the attack, that was certain. How many would get out alive? “Looks like the fight is hotting up down there, Sergeant,” he commented, looked to the north.

  “Yes, Captain. That sunken road seems to have attracted Yankee’s attention.”

  The third attack by the Northern troops was directed west towards Sharpsburg. In the way was a sunken road which was defended by Alabamians and North Carolinians of Daniel Hill’s division. Towards this advanced Major General William French’s 3rd Division of the 2nd Corps while to their right the men of Major General John Sedgwick’s 2nd Division marched towards a church defended by the remnants of the Southern forces that had fought Mansfield’s men an hour or so back. They weren’t in any condition to cope with a fresh attack, so Lee sent McLaw’s and Walker’s men against them. Their charge shattered Sedgwick’s advance and the commander was carried from the field, severely wounded.

  This left French to advance alone and the defenders in the sunken lane began pouring a hail of fire at them. Men dropped in scores but the Union troops grimly advanced and began trading volleys at close range. Bodies piled up on both sides.

  An adjutant to McClellan bit off an exasperated oath and turned to his commander. “Sir! Why do these Rebels carry on fighting when what they are fighting for is morally wrong? Why don’t they give up?”

  McClellan sighed and lowered his telescope. “Young man,” he said severely, admonishing the fresh-faced Connecticut man. “These are Americans; no matter they are fighting for rebellion or slavery or whatever issue it may be. They are Americans. Do you think we would surrender at the slightest hint of a fight?”