The Velvet Shadow (45 page)

Distracted by movement in a stand of scrub oaks, Alden tilted his head and stared as a flock of sparrows rose from the greenery, fluttering and circling above the field in a state of utter bewilderment. Beyond the line of embankments, the artillery had been blasting canisters loaded with grapeshot into the Confederates for nearly an hour. Those Rebel lines ought to be weaker now.

“Major,” a man called from the line, a look of pained concentration on his face, “can I be excused? Nature’s calling real insistently.”

“Stay in your place, soldier.” Alden shook his head and pressed his heel to his horse’s ribs, urging the skittish mare forward. Amazing how many men marched to the front line and suddenly remembered that they’d forgotten to visit the latrine or repair their rifles.

Alden rode parallel to the line, using the flat side of his saber to prod the stragglers forward. “The artillery’s been softening them up for some time now, boys,” he called, reining in his horse. “We’re moving out soon, for God and the Union. Let’s show them what Massachusetts men are made of!”

The men cheered and the drummers began to play. The line filled in and undulated softly as men scrambled over the trenches and the mounded earthworks, then stepped onto the open field. There had been no artillery fire from the Rebs, so they were safe to wait outside the embankments.

Alden kicked the mare and trotted down the line, mentally checking off the companies in his command. Company L marched in this part of the line, supported by Company K. He caught a glimpse of Roger’s profile and saw that his brother wore a cold, hard-pinched expression on his face. Alden nodded grimly and moved down the line, then slowed as he recognized the men of Company M.

His eyes studied every form in the line, searching for Flanna. He didn’t see her.

“Major!” A ruddy-faced soldier looked back over his shoulder and jerked his chin toward Alden. “I got a message for you—a letter.”

“Let it wait, Private.” Alden’s gaze moved on down the line, relieved that Flanna had listened to him and stayed behind. He didn’t care whether she was playing sick or working in the medical tent, at least she had sense enough to realize that she couldn’t very well tramp into battle with these men.

Alden turned his mount and retraced his path, automatically soothing the mare as she snorted and danced beneath the saddle. A smudge of sun dappled through the heavy cloud cover, and though the prospect of sunlight should have cheered him, Alden felt a distant anxiety.

They had been expecting the Rebs to attack. Colonel Farnham had told his officers to move at morning’s first light, and yet the rains had upset McClellan’s master plan. Last night’s rain had brought the Chickahominy, a trickling river in the midst of this peninsula, to flood stage, effectively cutting the general’s grand army in two. Rather than face the entire Union force, the Rebs had wisely directed all their efforts against the Federal troops on the southern side of the swollen river.

Alden reached into his pocket and pulled out a map he’d hastily drawn the night before. One penciled line indicated the Nine-mile Road; two dots marked its intersections with the Williamsburg Old Stage Road and the Richmond and York River Railroad. The locals called the Old Stage intersection Seven Pines, and the depot at the railroad intersection was named Fair Oaks. Alden and his regiment stood less than a mile from Fair Oaks.

After memorizing the locations, Alden folded the map and thrust it back into his coat. Like a wolf seeking out its enemy’s weakness, the Confederates had surmised that this half of the Union army was the less prepared, and so the attack had come.

Alden’s orders were specific. His troops were to support the picket line and prepare to move forward at the colonel’s command. Two regiments of the brigade had already been detached, and skirmishers had been sent to detect the extent of the Confederate lines. The enemy no doubt believed that an energetic morning attack would defeat the Federal regiments on the southern side of the river before the other portion of the army could cross. The Rebs would be fighting on boggy, swampy fields and woods, but they were defending their capital and their cause.

This would not be an easy battle.

God, help the right. And help me do my duty
.

A sharp burst of signal fire sounded behind the trees, and Alden barked the order to move out. The mare back-stepped, eyeing the trench and embankment with suspicion, but Alden touched his boot to her ribs. The horse cleared trench and mound in one graceful leap, then moved contentedly behind the men, the grass making wet slicking sounds against her legs. As he rode, Alden stared at the ground in grim curiosity. A mass shedding was taking place, the men dropping anything and everything that might be a hindrance in battle. Overcoats, blankets, and canteens littered the earth, and Alden felt the corner of his mouth lift in a wry smile when he saw a blizzard of playing cards whirling in the wind. Someone, no doubt, had just forsworn gambling in a last-minute attempt to enjoin God’s protection.

“’Tis a messy day, Major!” the regimental standard-bearer called over his shoulder as the blue and white flag flapped over his head.

The men were wading through a virtual swamp; some of them splashed through puddles and found themselves in knee-deep water. This would be a difficult fight, for powder cartridges would not fire if wet, and most of the men were accustomed to kneeling or lying on the ground to load and fire.

“Keep it up,” Alden called, strengthening his voice. “We’ll take this land inch by inch if we have to!” He heard the sound of gunshots, dry and thin as snapping twigs, then a shrill, exultant, savage cry from the woods.

“Listen to the Rebs screaming,” one man yelled. “They can’t wait for us to come.”

“Yell back at them,” Alden called. “Center up, close up those gaps, keep the line tight. If the man next to you falls, keep going!”

Alden tensed as the noise of battle intensified. The sound of the bullets varied from a sharp crack to a hum, then a whistle. One blew by his ear with a strange meowing sound, as if a Rebel had thrown a kitten at him. The line buckled as his men stopped to aim and fire, though clouds of smoke from the Confederates’ rifle pits made it difficult to aim at anything.

“Keep it up, boys, keep going,” Alden yelled, resisting his own urge to duck as bullets whizzed past him. “Fire at will! Show them that Massachusetts men aren’t afraid to fight for freedom!”

The standard-bearer fell, hitting the damp ground with a wet smack as the regimental colors fluttered down over him. Alden immediately kicked his horse into a canter and moved into the man’s empty position. He reached out for the flagpole, which another soldier placed in his hand.

“Onward!” He braced the flagpole in his stirrup and held the banner high for the others to see. “Our colors are still flying!”

As the line of attack closed in on the Confederates, the hail of lead thickened. The mare snorted and shook her head, unnerved by the hum of bullets and the crackle of musketry. Clods of earth flew up in front of the line, turning what had been an emerald field into a muddy mess. Unavoidably, one by one, the men in Alden’s line fell. He ordered his men into new positions, frantically trying to keep the line closed, but the time of organized warfare had ended. From this point each man would fight on his own.

A shot whizzed by, stinging Alden’s ear. He lifted his hand and pulled it away, surprised to find a streak of blood on his fingertips.

“Enough of this,” he muttered, sliding off his horse. He turned the mare away from the battle line, pulled his rifle from its scabbard, then swatted the animal’s bony rear. The grateful animal bolted and was gone.

Wanting to leave the regimental flag with someone else, Alden looked around. The sight of movement from behind a tree startled him, and Alden dropped the colors and crouched behind a bush, not certain what he would encounter. Through the veil of greenery he saw a soldier squatting behind a stout oak, a cartridge in his hand. As Alden watched, perplexed, the man bit the cartridge and ripped it open, then poured a handful of gunpowder into his palm. After casting a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, he spat into the powder and rubbed the moistened mixture on his face, then he obliterated the traces of gunpowder on his hands with mud. When he had finished, he turned and sank to the ground, his back against the tree, his eyes closed, his rifle in his hand, still unfired.

Alden stared in stunned disbelief. The little coward! By all appearances anyone would think he had been out fighting on the front lines, but the shiftless sneak would undoubtedly remain here until retreat.

Alden charged forward. “You, there!” He pulled his pistol from the holster at his waist. “Get up right now or, by heaven, I’ll shoot you myself!”

The coward’s hands lifted in a don’t-shoot posture as Alden approached, his eyes showing white all around like a panicked horse.

“I saw your little act and the application of your war paint.” Alden shook with impotent rage. “You will get up now, and you will march toward your fellows, proudly carrying our regimental colors. To make sure you do, I will march right behind you.”

The fellow’s powder-blackened lips parted in a wide smile as he stood. “Why, Alden, why would I want to do that? The man who carries the colors might as well wear a sign that says Shoot Me.”

Alden stared wordlessly at Roger, his heart pounding.

“Say something, brother.” Roger slowly lowered his hands, warming Alden with that ever-so-charming smile. “You aren’t really angry,
are you? I would have gone to the front with my company,” his hands moved to his stomach, “but I’ve an awful bellyache and I really didn’t think I should be fighting. You wouldn’t want me to have an attack of the quickstep out there on the field, would you?”

Alden hesitated, weighing his anger against his responsibility to protect his brother. Mother would never forgive him for deliberately placing Roger in harm’s way.

Seething with anger, humiliation, and frustration, he lowered his pistol.

“You are a disgrace to your company, your men, and Massachusetts.” His voice vibrated with restrained fury. “Stay here, guard the regiment’s standard, play your little game. But as long as you persist in wearing that uniform, you are not to speak to me again.”

He turned and walked toward the battle, leaving Roger in the cowardly shadows. And a few moments later, when a shot knocked Alden to the ground, he closed his eyes in resignation to God’s will.

At least his mother would be spared one son.

Flanna took cover while the battle surged in front of her. She had wanted to run and find Alden, but she knew she would have been simply a target for both sides if she entered the battlefield.

After two days she finally got her chance. Under flags of truce soldiers of both armies moved out to collect the dead and wounded. Flanna moved among them, too, not caring whether the men at her feet wore butternut brown, the prevailing uniform among the homedressed Confederates, or Union blue. She closed the eyes of the dead and brought water to the wounded, trying to make them as comfortable as possible until a litter could arrive. Both Union and Confederate soldiers watched as she went about her grim task, and each side assumed she belonged to them. Which, in a way, she supposed she did.

As she worked, she interrogated the Union litter bearers. While the Confederate wounded had access to a hospital in Richmond, the Union wounded had only the regimental surgeons’ tents at the rear of the army.

“So what is happening to these men?” she demanded, placing her hands on her hips as she interrogated one young drummer boy.

The boy blinked up at her, doubtless confused by her manner, her unconventional coiffure, and her mud- and blood-stained dress. “We’re taking’em to the railway depot at the rear.” He swatted away a fly that buzzed around his bloody hands. “Though I haven’t seen or heard a train in days. They’re just lyin’ out there, shivering.”

“Is someone giving them food and water?” Softening her tone, Flanna stooped slightly and looked the young man in the eye. “Did the general or the surgeon appoint someone to care for these men, or are they lying in the rain?”

The boy nodded slightly. “That’s it, ma’am, you have it right. They’re all just lyin’ there, with no one to help. If it was me”—he paused and chewed his lip thoughtfully—“yep, if it was me, I’d rather be dead. They’re calling and crying, but no one listens. And after the trains pick them up, if the trains ever come, they’ll have to lie at the wharf and wait for a boat.”

Flanna turned away, hiding the storm of frustration and anger that surely showed on her face. General McClellan might enjoy preparing for war, but he had obviously made no preparation for its brutal aftermath.

“Thank you, young man.” She turned and gave the boy a patient smile, then knelt down and smoothed the forehead of the wounded infantryman at her feet. He was unconscious. Considering all that lay ahead of him, that was probably a mercy.

The boy and his companion lifted the litter and trudged back through the mud toward the Union lines. Flanna stood and pressed her hands to her back, easing the stiffness out of her joints. She had slept only a few hours of the last forty-eight, and had eaten nothing but two pieces of hardtack and a slab of dried beef from a dead Federal’s haversack. The rains had vanished, but the sun still hid its face, dropping only occasional shafts of light through breaks in the overhanging clouds.