"Sure as hell looks that way."
"Don't get yourself killed, sir," and the sergeant was off.
Henry mounted, spurring his horse, orderly falling in behind with guidon. Leaving the grass-covered yard, Henry weaved his way through the town, which was clogged with troops, supply wagons, and, annoyingly, dozens of civilian buggies and wagons filled with curiosity seekers, the vermin who seemed to mink that a battle was an event for their amusement. Several called out asking what was happening, but he ignored them. One local had had the audacity to set up a stand selling lemonade and cider. Henry made no comment as several men, having drunk their fill, walked off without payment the proprietor shouting for Henry to arrest them. The man looked healthy enough and should be toting a rifle rather than making a few pennies off men who, might be dead by nightfall.
The day was getting hotter, and he reached for his canteen even as he rode, cursing himself for not having filled it at the well back at the house. The lieutenant trailing behind him was new, the boy he replaced having broken a leg in a fall from a horse the day before.
"What's your name, son?" Henry asked.
"Joshua Peeler, sir"
"Where you from?"
"Indiana, sir."
Henry nodded and then let the conversation drop. Never get too close to them. Boys carrying guidons drew bullets, lots of bullets.
Henry gained the road heading out of Taney town to Gettysburg. Coming up to a low crest just north of town, he could again see the smoke billowing up on the horizon. The field sloping down before him was already beginning to fill with the signs that he was approaching a battle. Skulkers lingered at the edge of the pasture. At the sight of his approach, they ducked back into the woods. The hay in the field was trampled down, fences torn apart, dozens of small, coiling circles of smoke indicating where a couple of regiments had taken a break and built fires to brew up a quick cup of coffee and fry some salt pork before marching on. Half a dozen men were resting under the shade of an elm, and at his approach one of them held up a provost pass, indicating they had been given permission to fall out of the march. They were obviously played out, done in by the heat and the pace of the advance. Several exhausted horses, cut loose from caisson or wagon traces, wandered freely along the road, one of them collapsed in a ditch, gasping for breath.
It was something about the damn war that always affected him. As a boy the sight of an animal in pain had always bothered him. He had once shot a rabbit and not killed it clean. The poor thing started to scream, sounding just like a baby in agony. He couldn't bring himself to kill it, his father having to do it instead. The memory had haunted his childhood nightmares for months. In a world where animals were slaughtered without thought, Henry had been a curiosity, avoiding open mockery only by the strength of his fists.
And yet he had chosen the bloodiest of professions and the bloodiest of arms within that profession. He had seen entire caisson teams, six horses, cut down by a single burst, animals with legs blown off still running, trying to keep up with their harness mates. After Chapultepec, they had burned the carcasses of fifty horses from his battery after carving off the choicer cuts of meat for dinner.
He rode past the collapsed horse, which looked up at him wide-eyed, as if asking forgiveness for being old and weak. He pressed on.
The road dipped down into a hollow, the air pleasant, cool. Fording the calf-deep stream, Henry tossed his canteen to his orderly, who dismounted, went upriver a dozen paces, and filled it
The shaded glade was peaceful, water swirling around the legs of his horse, who lowered his head to drink. For a moment he could almost forget the war. There was a flash memory of childhood, of playing in the creek on a hot summer day, building dams and little watermills out of sticks and pieces of wood. The lieutenant filling the canteen knelt in the water, splashing some on his face, childlike and innocent looking as if he were about to challenge Henry to a water fight
He wanted to forget everything for a minute, to linger here, soaking up the peace, the cool in the midday heat the quiet without fear of what was to come.
A clattering stirred him from the peaceful moment and he looked back to the ford. An ambulance was crossing and came to a stop. The driver jumped down, letting the horses drink, and started to fill canteens. At Henry's approach, the driver stood up and saluted.
"From Gettysburg?" Henry asked.
"Yes, sir."
One of the wounded was painfully climbing out of the back of the ambulance, a lieutenant of cavalry. "Are you with Buford?"
The man, cradling the stump of an arm, nodded. Henry dismounted, took the man's canteen, and knelt down to fill it.
"What's going on up there?"
"Hell of a fight," the lieutenant whispered, "hell of a fight."
"Who were you facing?"
"I got hit early. Kilmer in there," and he nodded to the ambulance, "leg got blown clean off. Mina, he's dead. Died a few minutes ago. Shot in the head; kept calling for his wife."
Henry handed the canteen back to the battle-shocked lieutenant, who was trembling as if the day was icy cold. "What were you facing, son?"
"I heard it was Heth, rest of A. P Hill's corps behind him. Quinn, I tried to stop the bleeding, but that damn driver wouldn't pull over. Kilmer just needs a drink, and he'll be alright"
Henry spared a glance into the back of the ambulance. It was obvious that the lieutenant's traveling companions were dead, and the boy wasn't far behind. The tourniquet on his arm had slipped.
Henry called the driver over. The driver looked into the back, sighed, and then guided the lieutenant over to the bank of the stream. Sitting him down, he started to reset the tourniquet the boy feebly struggling to get back up to give a canteen to Kilmer.
"Hospital area's just to the south of town, a few miles back," Henry offered.
Henry's orderly came up and, mounting, Henry started off, looking back at the lieutenant who was crying like a lost child.
Riding up the slope from the creek bottom, he had to yield the road several times. Ambulances raced past followed by a lone, panic-stricken rider crying out that the Rebs were into Gettysburg and everyone was dead.
Long experience had taught him that the rear of a battle always looked like a battle lost, and this was no exception. The closer he came to Gettysburg, the more disastrous things appeared. Dozens of exhausted soldiers, collapsing in the July heat, lined the sides of the road, lingering with them the men who had simply collapsed morally and were finding anyway possible to get out of the fight
A scattering of men were drifting down the pike, obviously having been in a fight All were dirty, faces looking like they had escaped from a minstrel show, smudged black from tearing open bullet cartridges with their teeth. He caught glimpses of corps badges, the First and the Eleventh. There was no sense in asking them about the fight. These were men who were getting out and their litany would be the same, that the battle was lost Things must still be holding up front because there was only one true sign of a general retreat when the guns fell back.
A dead horse was sprawled in the middle of the road, covered in lathered sweat next to it an overturned supply wagon filled with rations. A couple of small boys were poking around inside, obviously delighted with all the excitement Anxious civilians lined the road, all of them asking for reassurance, news. The healthy-looking young men in civilian garb caused his blood to boil, and when several shouted questions he was tempted to pull over, grab them by the collar, put guns in their hands, and push them forward.
Off to his left he caught glimpses of a high, tree-clad hill flanked by a lower rise, and he almost pulled over to climb it but decided to push straight on. An old woman standing by a crossroads held up a small basket with fresh-baked bread at his approach, and he reined in for a moment grateful for the offering.