Summary: When Adam Cartwright left college to join the Union Army, he had no idea he would be involved in three of the most significant battles of the Civil War.  Nor did he know that the experience would mark his life forever and influence the man he would become.

Rating: MA for battlefield violence

Word Count: 94,855

A Separate Dream Series

A Separate Dream
Soldier Boy

Soldier Boy

Book 2 of A Separate Dream

 

Chapter 1

Start Spreading the News

After far too short a night, Adam Cartwright woke to the first rays of dawn filtering through the window beside his bed.  He’d retired later than usual, having spent his first evening back in New Haven out with other returning students, and then remaining awake in thought for quite some time.  The conversation that evening had brought to the forefront of his mind the debate he’d held with himself all through the summer.  He’d finally made his decision in the wee hours of this 16^th day of September, 1862.  Now all he had to do was communicate it to the important people in his life . . . and deal with the repercussions, some of which were likely to make him feel he’d already arrived at the battle front.  Those he was perfectly content to put off as long as possible, but one person, the one most immediately affected by his decision, deserved to know right away, so he got out of bed and walked over to his wash basin to splash some inevitably cold water in his face.

He dressed and entered the sitting room he shared with his oldest friend, Jamie Edwards.  Was to have shared, he amended.  All too soon this would be lost to him, another dream put off, perhaps beyond hope of retrieval.  Apparently, Jamie was still asleep, for there was no light yet in his bedroom, which was on the opposite side of this central area.  Adam lighted a fire in the brick fireplace and then, taking the tin bucket that stood in the corner beside it, headed downstairs to the cistern in the college yard.  As the slight breeze raised goosepimples on his arms, he sighed.  Another problem he hadn’t foreseen.  Had he been continuing on at Yale, he would, of course, have gladly undertaken this chore every morning, to spare his less hale and hearty roommate, but now Jamie would have to do it himself . . . unless he hired a sweep.  Adam recalled hearing upperclassmen mention that possibility and thought he remembered the going rate being a dollar a week.  His army pay would cover that much, as well as his share of the room rent, and he would absolutely insist on paying both, no matter how little he had left for himself.  He would not allow Jamie to suffer any deprivation his personal decision incurred.  Anything less would be unfair.

When he returned to the room, he saw Jamie sitting in a chair beside the fireplace.  “A fine thing to wake up to,” the slightly built young man with the corn tassel hair said.  “Thanks for building the fire, Adam.”

“You’re welcome,” Adam said, setting down the pail of water.  “Perhaps if we leave this here by the fire, it might warm enough to tempt me to something more than a quick splash of my face.”

Jamie grinned.  “I haven’t even been tempted to that yet.  No such luxury tomorrow, I’m afraid, if we’re to make it to chapel on time.”

“Ah, you had faith for better things, but then, you always do,” Adam said, in a smiling hint at his friend’s declared call to the ministry.  As he settled into the chair facing Jamie, his lips drew into a straight line.

“Oh, dear,” Jamie said with an elongated sigh.  “A face that solemn can mean only one thing: you’ve made up your mind, and I’m not going to like it, am I?”

“Probably not,” Adam admitted.  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, chum, and even more sorry for the inconvenience it’s likely to bring you.”

“Then don’t do it,” Jamie said.

Adam looked at him in open-mouthed surprise.  “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” Jamie said, “but not because of any disappointment or inconvenience to me.  I am disappointed, of course.  I’ve so looked forward to sharing these rooms with you, sharing our college lives together.”

“As have I,” Adam inserted.

“I know, but”—his voice caught—“Oh, Adam!  Are you sure?  Think of the danger; think of all you’re giving up, even if . . . even if you’re the luckiest man alive and come out unscathed.”

Adam laughed lightly.  “You know perfectly well you don’t believe in luck, preacher boy, and as Brand suggested last night, I am making it your personal mission to pray that I do come out unscathed.”

“Don’t mock me,” Jamie scolded.  “You know I’ll do exactly that.”

Adam leaned forward to touch an apologetic hand to his friend’s knee.  “I wasn’t mocking.  I value your prayers, more than those of any man, except my father, and in this venture he may be more inclined to call down divine wrath on my errant head!”

“Now you are joking,” Jamie chided again.

“I hope so.”  Adam’s voice softened, almost to a whisper, for of all the people he had to inform of his decision, the one whose reaction he dreaded most was his father, Ben Cartwright.

Jamie laid his head back against the cushioned chair.  “I’d talk you out of this, if I could, but I never have been able to out-debate you.  The truth is, I’ve known since last night that this would be your decision.  I saw how you were drinking in Jim’s reasons for joining up.”

“He was very persuasive, though I don’t think that was his aim.”  James Brand, along with their mutual friend, Marcus Whitmore, had joined them for supper the night before.  In answer to the questions aroused by the sight of his Union blue uniform, the newly enlisted Brand had cited the need to eradicate slavery with words Adam had found unforgettable: “God and humanity demand it.”  Those were the words which had kept him awake as he weighed the balances before finally deciding to enlist.

“I suppose you’ll be signing up today?” Jamie asked.

Adam shook his head.  “I wish I could, but I promised this day to Elizabeth.  She’ll need to be told, too, of course, but I’m not dreading that nearly as much as I was telling you.  Thank you for making it as easy as you did, my friend.”

“Well, perhaps she can dissuade you, where a friend could not,” Jamie suggested with a wistful smile.

Knowing already his girl Elizabeth’s admiration for men in blue, Adam restrained his temptation to laugh aloud and simply said, “I doubt it.”

*****

Adam reached back to steady Elizabeth’s steps on the slippery rocks that led to their favorite picnic spot overlooking Wintergreen Falls at West Rock.  She smiled her appreciation; then they worked together to spread the blanket and set out the food she had prepared.  They settled side by side, and she began to prepare their plates.  “Now, tell me if you want more of anything,” she said.

“Just more of you,” he said.  “It was nice of you to prepare this picnic.  I had planned to take you out to dinner.”

“Well, I know how you like to count your pennies,” she teased.

“I earned a tidy sum from my work in New York this summer,” he reminded her.

“Yes, that’s true,” she said, “and you did win that wonderful scholarship, which should leave you enough for an evening out now and then.”

Adam winced.  The Woolsey scholarship!  The one that would have given him an extra $60 each year for college expenses.  He’d been so excited to receive it and had promised Elizabeth that it would enable him to be a little freer with what he could spend on activities with her.  Now it was just one more piece of business to deal with before he enlisted, and it would need to be dealt with today, since classes would begin tomorrow.

“What’s wrong?” Elizabeth demanded.  “Don’t you want to spend an occasional evening out with me?”

“Of course, I do,” Adam assured her.  “You just reminded me of something I need to take care of today.”

“This is supposed to be my day,” she pouted.  “You promised, Adam.”

“Most of it will be,” he affirmed, “but I have had a change of circumstance, my dear, and there will be a bit of business to transact this afternoon.  I would be delighted to take you to supper, however, and spend the rest of the evening in any way you wish.”

“Oh.”  She looked puzzled.  “Is it something to do with your scholarship?”  She could remember mentioning nothing else that might have served as some reminder for him.

Adam uttered a short laugh.  “It will affect it, yes, although I hadn’t even thought about that until you mentioned it.”

“Oh, you’re not in danger of losing it, are you?” she asked, seeing those blissful evenings together fading away into the mist of broken dreams.

“I’m not sure.”  Adam took her hand.  “Elizabeth, darling, I’ve made a decision, but I was going to wait until we’d eaten to tell you.”

“Adam Cartwright, I won’t be able to eat a thing if you don’t tell me right this minute!”

“I guess I’d better, then,” he said, quirking a smile, “especially as it does affect you, too.”

“Now you’re worrying me,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” he said.  “The reason I’m unsure of the status of my scholarship is that I’ve decided not to return to school this fall.”

“Oh, Adam, no!” she cried.  “I’ve waited all these months for you to return, and now you’re going back to that awful job in New York.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Adam said, patting her forearm in consolation, “but something of which I hope you will approve, even though it means we will be apart for several months.”  He took a long breath and said plainly, “I’m planning to enlist in the Union Army.  I feel I must.”

She stared at him for a moment, and then she squealed in delight.  “You’ve enlisted!  Oh, Adam, I’m so . . . so proud, and you’ll look splendid in uniform, even more handsome than Father.”

“That, of course, was my sole reason,” he teased.

She spatted his hand.  “Ooh, you’re awful.”  Then she smiled brightly.  “But I shall forgive you because I can’t stay angry with a man in blue.”

“Any man in blue?”

The spat landed more sharply this time.  He laughed and answered her supposed irritation with a quick kiss on the cheek.  “I haven’t enlisted yet, though.  I plan to do that tomorrow, which is why I need to get my affairs in order today.”

“Yes, I see now,” she said demurely.  “Well, let’s enjoy our picnic, and you can take me home.  While you see to your affairs, I’ll plan a wonderful evening for us.  And once you’ve enlisted, you’ll have much more free time than you would as a student.”

“Until we march out,” he said with a sober, reminding arch of his eyebrow.

“Yes, until then,” she agreed, matching his somber expression for only a moment before saying, “but that won’t be for ages.  Oh, this will be such fun, Adam!”

*****

Heels nervously tapping the floor, Adam sat on a straight-backed wooden chair in the hallway outside the office of President Theodore Dwight Woolsey.  After escorting Elizabeth home, he’d gone to the bank, where he’d transferred his savings from the bank in New York and added Jamie’s name to his account here in New Haven.  Jamie would need to submit a signature card to make it official, and he’d probably balk at the suggestion, but in the end, he’d give in.  Adam had his arguments for that well outlined and knew they’d succeed.  His friend had been quite correct the night before in saying that he’d never bested Adam in a debate, and Adam was not about to allow this to be his first loss.

He felt much less confident about his errand here at the college.  He had to formally withdraw, of course, but it couldn’t come as any great surprise that a student might feel compelled to enlist.  After all, James Brand and quite possibly others had done it before him.  The door beside him opened, and he was soon inside, taking the seat President Woolsey offered.

“Well, Mr. Cartwright, are you looking forward to classes tomorrow?” the slender, but wiry-built Woolsey asked with a pleasant smile.  “I trust it isn’t some problem that has brought you here today.”

“Not a problem, exactly,” Adam began and then halted.  “Well, yes, in a way, but I would have had to come anyway.”  He broke off, seeing concern growing in the president’s always discerning eyes.  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, his voice quaking.  “I wish I could be starting classes tomorrow, but I’m afraid I won’t be attending Yale this year.”

“Surely, it’s not a financial problem,” Woolsey said.  “Not for the winner of our most prestigious scholarship.”

“No, sir.  That solved any such problems I had.”

The president sighed.  “Then some other opportunity has lured you away, some more lucrative employment, perhaps?”

Adam gave him a wry smile.  “Definitely not more lucrative, sir.  A private’s pay is pretty puny, I suspect.”

President Woolsey stroked his clean-shaven jowls.  “You’ve enlisted in the Army, then?  For the Union, I presume.”

“Not yet, but that is my intention, yes.”

“And you’ve thought this through carefully?”

Adam nodded soberly.  “I have, sir, and so I’ve come today to request permission to withdraw from school, in hopes that I will be allowed to reenroll next year, since the units the President has called for require only a nine-month’s enlistment.”

“There’s no question that you would be welcomed with open arms, Mr. Cartwright,” Woolsey assured him.  “While I would prefer to see a young man of your caliber continue his education, instead of hazarding his life on a battlefield, I can scarcely fault you for putting country above self.  It represents the high moral character we hope to develop in our students at Yale.”

Adam pursed his lips and blinked back the moisture threatening his eyes.  “Thank you, sir.  There is the matter of my scholarship, too.  I don’t know what the policy is, whether I could simply delay taking it until next year or whether I must yield it.  The next man in line in the exams was James Edwards, of course, so if I must lose it myself, I could not be better pleased in seeing it go to him.”

President Woolsey smiled slightly, but then his brows drew together in thought.  “Honestly, my boy, I don’t know how to answer you.  It’s not a situation that has developed before, and it isn’t strictly my decision to make.  I’ll need to consult the board, but I will certainly inform you of their decision as soon as possible.  Will this have any influence on your own decision?”

“No, sir, none at all,” Adam said as he stood.  “Thank you for your time, as well as your offer to keep me informed as to my status.  I look forward to seeing you again next year.”

“No more than I to welcoming you back, son.”  The president rose and walked Adam to the door, his slightly stooped shoulders seeming more bowed than usual.  “One other matter, Mr. Cartwright.  Where are you staying?”

Adam halted in sudden realization.  “In the dorm assignment I drew last spring, sir, and I’ve just realized I have no right to be there.”

“By policy, no,” the president said.  Then he smiled.  “However, I think we can bend the rules slightly for a young man serving his country, so long as your roommate is willing.  Mr. Edwards, I presume?”

Adam grinned.  “Yes, sir.”

“Then, let’s consider you his guest,” Woolsey suggested, “at least until you’ve been accepted into the Army.  Then, of course, they will be responsible for your lodging and provision.”  He extended his hand.  “Good luck, Mr. Cartwright, and God go with you.”

“Yes, sir; thank you, sir.”  Giving the president’s hand a hearty shake, he left the building and headed back to the dorm, to have that talk with Jamie.

*****

“I most certainly will not sign on to your account!” a red-faced Jamie declared.

“Yes, you will,” Adam insisted.  “I may well need you to access it on my behalf while I’m away, at the very least for Christmas and birthday gifts for my family.  I brought back a few things from New York, but I can’t imagine the camp sutlers will carry many things Little Joe—or even Hoss, for that matter—would be thrilled to find under the tree.”

Jamie fell back into the chair he’d leaped up from when Adam first presented the proposition to him.  “Oh,” he said.  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Adam pressed his point.  “I may need you to send me some items the Army doesn’t see fit to provide, too!”

Jamie laughed, then.  “Like decent reading material?”

Adam laughed, too.  “Exactly like that . . . or perhaps some of Candy Sam’s divinity.”

“In that case,” Jamie said, “I’ll be privileged to act as your agent for all such commissions.”  He signed the card extending him access to Adam’s bank account, but added, “However, I don’t have any need for your funds myself.  I won the Hurlbut, remember?”  He gasped.  “Oh, Adam!  Your scholarship!  What will happen to that?”

“I don’t know,” Adam admitted.  “I’ve spoken to President Woolsey about it, but he couldn’t tell me without consulting some others.  It may end up going to you, chum.”

“To me?”  Jamie looked startled.

“You placed second in the exam, remember?  If I must relinquish it, then you’d be first in line to receive it.”

“Oh, I hope not,” Jamie said.

Adam laughed.  Don’t be ridiculous, Jamie!  It’s sixty dollars for four years, not just one, like your award.  You’d be a fool to turn it down.”

Jamie cocked his head, smiling wryly.  “Does that make you a fool for giving it up?”

Chuckling, Adam wagged his head.  “Perhaps, but I’m a hard-headed one.”

“Well, that’s the truth.”  Jamie sighed.  “Oh, I will miss you.”

“Not for a day or so,” Adam said.  “I have the president’s permission to stay here in the dorm, so long as it’s all right with you.”

Lips twitching, Jamie stroked his smooth chin.  “Hmm.  I’ll have to think about that.  It can be a challenge to live with a hard-headed fool, you know.”

*****

That night Adam and Jamie again met Marcus for supper at Mory’s, and this time Lucas Cameron, the final member of the quartet of friends that had formed during freshman year, joined them.  “It’s definite, then,” Marcus said to Adam.  “You’re joining up.”  He paused only a moment and then made his own announcement.  “I am, too.”

Between bites of Golden Buck, a Welsh rarebit topped with poached egg, Lucas observed with a wry grin, “It would appear, St. James, that you and I have been left high and dry.”

“So it would appear,” Jamie said with a smile, having long since learned to accept Luke’s teasing nickname for him.  He was no saint and he knew it, but he tried to use occasions like this as a prod to poke him in that direction.

“I’ll be paying my share of the room rent,” Adam said, “so except for the pleasure of my company, I won’t be costing my mate a thing.”  Too late, he realized the burden that might be placing on Marcus to make a similar offer to Luke as his roommate, one he was not as well placed to make.

“No, you’re not,” Jamie said, reviving their earlier argument.

“Yes, I am,” Adam insisted.  “You’ll automatically become responsible for both halves of the rent, so don’t be too proud to take what you know you’ll need.  There’s nothing virtuous about it.”

“Well, if it’s a contest in virtue, you know St. James has us all licked before we start!” Lucas declared.  “I, personally, shall not even bother to enter the contest.”

“You, personally, have no chance,” Marcus threw at him.  Then he sobered.  “I wish I could make the same offer as Adam, chum.  I can’t, but I’ll do what I can to help out.  It won’t be much, on a private’s pay, but I do, at least, have what I’d have spent on tuition.”

“Save that up for when you return next year,” Luke said, waving off the offer.  “I have a better solution, one which saves everyone’s pocketbooks.”  He made them wait, while he ingested another bite of Golden Buck, and then said, with a wide grin, “We’ll just trade roommates.  St. James and I will team up for the year and give up one of the rooms.”

Marcus and Adam both hooted, for two more different young men did not attend Yale College than sober, righteous Jamie Edwards and slapdash, happy-go-lucky Lucas Cameron.  “You’d drive each other mad,” Adam said with an amused shake of his head.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jamie returned, still only taking Luke’s idea half seriously, “it might better us both.  Sober Luke down a trifle.”

“And stir up St. James a ton.”  Lucas laughed loud enough to turn heads at other tables.  “We’d both have our work cut out for us!”

“You would, indeed,” Adam chuckled, still shaking his head in disbelief.  Yet, over the rest of their dinner, Lucas and Jamie could be seen with their heads together in discussion of the new idea, while Adam and Marcus conversed about how and when to make their enlistment official.

 

Chapter 2

You’re in the Army Now

 

Adam stood on the sidewalk outside the recruiting office, where he’d just put in his name as the newest recruit for the 27^th Connecticut regiment of the Union Army.  He didn’t hold that position long, however, for Marcus Whitmore exited within minutes, holding in his hand the same white certificate that Adam himself had received.  Waving his, Adam said, “Off to the doctor’s office, I presume.”

Marcus nodded grimly.  “They did say immediately.  I admit I’m rather dreading it.”

As they strolled down the street toward the address they’d been given, Adam chuckled.  “Why?  You’re healthy enough, Marc, and I can’t imagine they turn down many volunteers, so long as they can march and see well enough to follow the man in front of them.  Since you have to be that healthy to survive a year at Yale, I suspect you’ll pass easily, my friend.”

“Not as easily as you,” Marc said with an admiring appraisal of Adam’s fine physique.

Adam stopped outside a door whose number matched the address in his hand.  “We’ll soon find out,” he said.  “This is the place.”  He took a deep breath, for however much he had twitted his friend’s concern, he shared it himself.  He’d never actually had a full physical before and had no idea what it entailed.  In fact, other than treatment for a bad cold or an accident, he’d never even had a doctor’s attention.  With determination he pulled open the door before him and entered, depositing his certificate with the uniformed clerk at the desk, and took a seat in the waiting area.  Marcus did the same and sat beside him.

After a lengthy wait Adam was ushered into a small examining room.  “Strip,” the orderly told him.  “The doctor’ll be in soon to look you over.”

Adam looked at him, aghast.  “St-strip?” he croaked.  “You mean . . .?

The orderly looked amused.  “Buck naked,” he chortled.  “No false modesty in the Army, young fellow.”

Adam gulped.  He couldn’t remember the last time anyone, much less a stranger, had seen him without a stitch of clothing.  Oh, his little brothers had no compunction about walking in on him in the bath, but the water itself tended to provide some slight shield against prying eyes.  Pa, of course, had always respected his privacy, since he’d been old enough to wash himself.  Privacy was a luxury probably not allowed in the Army, either, he surmised as he stripped down to his bare skin.  By the time he’d lived nine months in close quarters among strangers, he’d probably know and be known more intimately by them than by his own flesh and blood.  In his brief time as a soldier during the Pyramid Lake Indian War, they’d all just slept in their clothes, and they hadn’t bothered with such niceties as bathing.  However, he could scarcely give it up for nine months, and clothes unwashed for that long would rot off his body and leave him just as exposed as he now was.  No, the orderly was right.  False modesty would have to go.

Adam stood there, his naked flesh growing goosepimples in the cool air, for what seemed like hours.  Finally, the door opened and a man, presumably the doctor, entered.  “Well,” the doctor said after running his eyes up and down Adam from flushing cheeks to twitchy toes, “you seem a likely specimen, young man.  Better than the typical recruit I’m asked to examine.  Any complaints you wish to state?”

“No, sir,” Adam said.  “I’m healthy”—he laughed—“as a young bull, my doctor back home tends to say.”

“Hmm, it would appear so, and you obviously meet the height requirement, but I’ll still need to measure.  I must do a thorough examination, you understand.”

“Um, yes.”  Realizing how unmilitary that response must sound, he stammered out, “I mean, yes, sir.  What—what is the height requirement, sir, if I may ask?”

The doctor chuckled as he pointed toward a measure affixed to the wall.  “I’m not in the Army, son, so you can ask whatever you like—but not everything you like, mind.  The next young man in line would appreciate our working through this efficiently, I assure you.”

Adam was quite sure of that!  He gave a slight shiver as he approached the wall.  The room was downright chilly, especially to parade around in the altogether.

The doctor took his measure.  “Six foot even.  Well above the 5’6” requirement.  Now, if you’ll slowly turn around.”

Wanting only to get the whole ordeal over with, Adam turned in a slow circle, as the doctor scrutinized him inch by inch, or so it felt.  When he returned to his original position, the doctor observed, “No obvious contusions or abnormalities.”  He squeezed Adam’s biceps.  “Solid muscles,” he grunted with just a hint of admiration.  Then he thumped him soundly on both the chest and back and used his stethoscope to listen to his heart and lungs.  “Sound as a dollar,” the examiner stated.  “Now let’s see you jump.”

“Jump?”  Adam’s voice squeaked as he asked.  “You mean, just up and down, here.”

The doctor frowned.  “That’s the general direction one jumps.  Is there some reason you find yourself unable to comply, young man?  Some deformity of the legs, perhaps?”

“Oh, no, sir,” Adam said hurriedly.

“A soldier is required to follow orders, you know, and without question, I might add.”

Adam straightened up, barely resisting the urge to salute.  “Yes, sir.”  He commenced to jump up and down with what he hoped was the requisite display of energy, and when told to kick out his legs, he obeyed with alacrity, as a good soldier-to-be should.  Then, feeling sudden sympathy for every horse he’d ever evaluated, he opened his mouth on command and submitted to an examination of his, thankfully, full set of sound and solid teeth, though all the doctor seemed concerned with was whether he had two opposing ones.  Finally, he read flawlessly a set of letters from a chart on the wall to demonstrate adequate vision to do his duties as a soldier.

At least, he’d thought that was his final requirement, especially when the doctor told him he could get dressed again.  As he was reaching for his pants, however, the doctor extended a small glass vial to him.  “Once you’re dressed, you will visit the necessary across the hall,” he said, “and deposit a urine sample in this.  Return it to the desk in the waiting area, and then you’ll be free to go.”

“Uh, yes, sir,” Adam mumbled, cheeks flaming redder still.  He took the vial and held it at almost arm’s length until the doctor departed in search of his next victim and then set it aside while he quickly dressed.  Peeping out the door, he spotted what he thought must be the necessary, and concealing the telltale vial in his hand, he skittered quickly across the hall and into the small room, where he met the requirement as quickly as possible.  As he started to leave, he shook his head.  Oh, for the love of mercy, why was he even bothering to be so secretive when he would have to march that sample out to the waiting room full of potential recruits and present it to the clerk at the desk.  No false modesty, he again told himself.  He took a bolstering breath and marched out to hand in the now full vial.

The clerk didn’t even look at it, but merely set it aside in a tray with numerous others after tagging it with Adam’s name.  Then he handed Adam a sheet of paper.  “Directions to Camp Terry,” he said.  “Report there by 5 p.m. this evening, and you’ll be assigned a tent.”

“I’m accepted, then?” Adam inquired.

The clerk finally looked up at him.  “Provisionally.  The doctor saw nothing to deter your enlistment.  If this”—he gestured toward the vial of urine—“shows anything amiss, you’ll be informed.”  He leaned forward to offer a word of what he believed was sage advice.  “Just in case, don’t cut all your ties outside the Army.”

“Yes, thank you,” Adam said, although he was pretty sure he’d already cut every important tie he had, at least here in the East.  He was no longer enrolled at Yale, although that perhaps could be rectified, but it might very well be too late to keep his roommate or scholarship by the time that sample was rejected.  He shrugged.  What would be, would be, but he was fairly certain he’d just become a soldier.  He sat down in one of the empty chairs to wait for Marcus.

He wasn’t sure whether time was just passing slowly or whether Marc’s exam was actually taking longer than his had.  Wish I’d brought a book, he grumbled internally.  Instead, he spent the time taking a good look at the other men in the waiting room, who might, after all, be serving in the same company as he.  Most of the men were roughly his age, some a little older, in their late twenties or thirties.  One or two might even have been as much as forty.  Some had the rustic look of farmers, while others carried themselves with city sophistication.  Adam even thought he’d seen a few on the campus of Yale the previous year, although none in the room were among his own class, the students he knew best.  Still, he thought with a slight smile, they weren’t as diverse a group as the hodge-podge of would-be soldiers that had gone on the campaign against the Paiutes back home.

Finally, Marcus, cheeks flaming redder than Adam was sure his own possibly could have, came through the inner door and handed his carefully secreted glass vial to the clerk at the desk.  Adam grinned as he wondered whether his friend, too, had been given that speech about “false modesty in the Army.”  If not, he’d be sure to pass it along.  The whole experience was best laughed off, he decided, so as soon as he and Marc were outside, he suggested a visit to Mory’s, where they could toast one another for their successful completion of the ordeal.

*****

Adam tapped lightly on the door to Jamie’s room, but opened the door himself and popped his head in.  “Just me,” he said.

Jamie chidingly shook his head as the other man entered.  “You didn’t need to knock, Adam; it’s your room, too.”

“No, it’s not,” Adam said with a significant arch of his eyebrow.  “I only had permission to stay here until I enlisted, so this is now officially your room . . . or, perhaps, yours and Luke’s.”

Jamie sighed as he dropped back into his fireside chair.  “They took you, then?”

The eyebrow arched higher.  “Did you entertain some doubt?”  He flexed his biceps.  “I’ll have you know, I am considered a ‘likely specimen.’”

Despite his disappointment, Jamie laughed.  “That sounds like doctor talk.”

“Oh, yes,” Adam said.  “Someday, when my sense of humor has been restored, I’ll give you a full description, but the short version is: avoid enlistment at all costs, my dear chum.  The physical exam alone will have you running for the hallowed halls of Yale.”

Jamie’s mouth twisted wryly.  “But not you, I see.  You’re made of more stalwart stuff than I, is that it?”

“Only in physique,” Adam chuckled, “but in truth I barely made it through that ordeal with my dignity intact.  Yours, my shy young friend, would not survive the first ridiculously embarrassing command.”  He laid a hand on Jamie’s shoulder.  “I’m only jesting, of course—except in calling it an embarrassing ordeal.  It was one.”

“Probably meant to prepare you for the battlefield,” Jamie teased back.

“Probably,” Adam said, his tone sober, though his eyes were not.  “The battlefield may be expected to produce ordeal.  Hopefully, I won’t embarrass myself there,” he added, tongue in cheek.

“So, then, this is your last night here?” Jamie asked, his mouth setting in a resigned straight line.

“I’m afraid last night was,” Adam said, his face reflecting his friend’s disappointment.  “I report to Camp Terry this evening, so I presume I’ll be sleeping there.  I just came by to tell you and to see what disposition I can make of my belongings.  Did you and Luke come to a decision about rooming together?”

“Yes, we’re going to,” Jamie said.  “We’ll take his room, as it’s on a lower floor.”

Adam smiled wryly.  “At least, it’s in the same building, so it’ll be a relatively easy move, and I’m sure I can get time off to help.”

Jamie grinned.  “I would hope so, but at least it’s our paltry furnishings we’ll be moving and not Luke’s more abundant ones to tote up the stairs.”

“Yours, not ours,” Adam corrected.  “What I have to decide is what to do with mine.  I certainly can’t tote my own bed into a tent!”  He sighed.  “Not to mention all the books I’ve accumulated over the last year, although I do intend to take a couple with me.”

“Leave the rest with me,” Jamie said.  “My shelves aren’t so full they can’t accommodate a few more volumes.”

“Thanks,” Adam said.  “It’s good to know they’ll have a home, and I was hoping you might be willing to take custody of my guitar, keep it safe for me.”

“Of course, I will . . . if,” Jamie said, his voice pinching with emotion, “you will promise to keep yourself safe for me.”

Tempted to tease, just to ease the shiver of apprehension that frizzled up his spine, Adam nonetheless treated the request with the respect it deserved.  “I promise,” he said simply.  Then, shaking off the emotion they were both feeling, he said, “I’d better head for camp.  Wouldn’t want to be late!  I’ll try to get back tomorrow and sort out my stuff, get it out of your way . . . somewhere.”

Jamie shook his head.  “Just leave it—what you don’t take, I mean.  I’ll either make room for it or, perhaps, take—or ship—the excess home for Father to keep.”

“He could use the extra bed at his place,” Adam said with a nod.  “I’ll ship it to him.”  He doubled his fist and gave his slender friend’s shoulder a light tap.  “Thanks, chum.”

“My pleasure . . . my privilege,” Jamie said, voice choking again.  Then he was the one to lighten the tension in the air by announcing, “Right, then.  Off to camp with you, soldier boy.  You wouldn’t want to incur demerits your first day!”

Adam grinned, but left after giving his friend a clap on the back.  He had a feeling the Union Army rewarded disobedience to orders with something considerably harsher than a schoolboy’s demerits, but, then, he was a schoolboy no longer; his friend’s new appellation of “soldier boy” was far more accurate.  He hurried off campus and headed south, toward Chapel Street.

*****

Adam pulled the collar of his jacket up over the back of his neck, for the wind off the Mill River was biting.  Earlier in the day he might have said inviting, but as the sun slowly descended toward the horizon, the temperature dropped.  He hoped the Army would provide a warm blanket; otherwise, he was likely to sleep cold inside a tent tonight.  He hadn’t brought much with him, only a small carpetbag that he’d stuffed with clothing and a couple of books the night before.  Oh, well, it wouldn’t be too bad, and hopefully he’d have a chance tomorrow to provide himself with anything else he’d need in camp.

He crossed the narrow river and almost immediately arrived at Camp Terry, located at Grapevine Point, where the Mill River met the larger Quinnipiac.  Reporting to the officer in charge, he was given directions to his tent assignment and made his way over the pleasant green field dotted with canvas tents, laid out in straight rows and labeled with common street names for convenience.  He opened the flap of the one to which he’d been directed and peered in, grinning when he saw Marcus already inside.  “We’re together, then?” he asked.  “That’s good luck!”

“For me, especially,” Marcus said.  “I’m so glad, Adam.”

Adam came in and dropped his carpetbag on the ground.  “Is it just us or is someone else already assigned here?”

“One fellow,” Marc said.  “I met him earlier.  His name’s Breckinridge.  He’s an older man, a teacher he said.”

“Ah, that would be convenient,” Adam chuckled, “in case I need help keeping up with my studies.”

“Do you intend to?” Marc asked, incredulous.

Adam shrugged.  “Maybe.  Not the full course, naturally, but it might provide something to do while we’re in camp.  We can’t drill all the time, I suppose.  I suppose, too, that it would be pointless to try to keep up with our class once we march toward the front.”

“Yeah.  Probably pointless for me to even start,” Marc said with a forlorn shake of his head.  “I’d forget it all by the time we came back, anyway.”

“You’re not that poor a student,” Adam chided.  “It probably doesn’t matter at all, really, unless we plan to try to rejoin our current class.  Wonder what Brand plans.  Any idea where his tent is?”

“No, I think he’s in a different company, but he shouldn’t be hard to find.  You think he might be able to transfer to our company, make a fourth here in our tent?”

“I’d like that, but I doubt it’s possible,” Adam said.  “He’s settled in by now.  We’ll just have to make do with what the Army sends us, I suspect.”

Dinner time arrived, and the two new recruits lined up behind their tentmate, Saul Breckinridge, their senior in the service by a single day.  It was enough, though, to give him valuable knowledge in “the ropes” of life in an Army camp.  He was older, as Marc had said, but only by about five or so years.  He’d laughed when presented with the prospect of keeping the young Yale students on track with their studies.  “I teach grammar school,” he’d said, “so if it’s your multiplication tables you’re having difficulty with, I’m your man.  Latin conjugations?  Well, I can do them, but, being rusty, probably not as well as you!”

The meal was nothing to brag about, but it was, at least, a thick and hearty soup, with biscuits on the side.  Afterwards, Adam walked around camp, making inquiries as he went, and he finally learned where James Brand was camped.  Jim welcomed him into his tent and introduced him to his mates.  “I’m glad you’ve enlisted, Adam,” he said.  “It’s a comfort to know I’ll be serving with men like you.”

“I feel the same,” Adam said.  “Marcus Whitmore is sharing a tent with me, since we enlisted within minutes of each other.”

“Ah, it’s always good to share quarters with men you respect,” Brand observed.  “My mates were all strangers to me, but I’ve been blessed in having such good ones.”  A trumpet sounded in the distance.  “You’d better get back to your own quarters, soldier,” he said with a smile.  “They don’t check too carefully, but you wouldn’t want to be caught out your first night.”

“That’s for sure!” Adam said, getting up.  He gave his hand to each man in the tent and headed quickly back the way he’d come.

As they lay in their cots that night, Saul explained where to find the quartermaster, and the two new recruits went there the next morning to receive their uniforms.  Adam’s long form presented the greater challenge, but he was eventually supplied with a set of blue trousers and a frock coat that fit him reasonably well.  Marc’s slighter figure was more quickly suited in blue.  Saul also told them how to obtain a pass to go into town, and both of them took advantage of it.  They spent the afternoon helping move Jamie’s and Adam’s things down to Lucas’s room.  Then, as soon as the two college students left for their eating club, Adam headed directly to Elizabeth’s house, to show her his new blue finery.

*****

Adam sat at Jamie’s desk, staring at a blank piece of stationery.  Well, almost blank.  He had managed to write “Dear Pa,” but that was as far as he’d gotten.  Why wasn’t it an essay on some philosophical or literary topic he needed to write?  His mouth slewed wryly.  It could have been, of course, if only he’d made the decision to remain in college, instead of joining the Army.  However, he had chosen to serve his country, and the first battle of his military career would probably be with his father.  When he’d left home, he’d virtually promised to keep out of the eastern conflict.  Easy words to say then, but conscience had not allowed him to turn a deaf ear to Lincoln’s call for volunteers.  The cause was just, and he felt honor bound to uphold it.

He knew he was right, but what words could possibly convince Pa?  Probably none.  He briefly entertained the idea of simply not telling him, but scorned it for several overlapping reasons.  First, it would be a difficult secret to keep for nine months, necessitating a multitude of lies.  Even if he managed that, it would eventually come out, anyway, if only because he’d need to spend an extra year back East to finish his college work.  It might be easier for Pa to learn about his decision after he’d carried it through and come home safely, but Adam doubted it would soften the roar of thunder he expected to hear all the way from Nevada, whenever Pa got the news.  And, of course, there was always the possibility, however slim he believed it to be, that he wouldn’t make it home safely.  What a shock that would give Pa and his little brothers if they hadn’t even known he was on the battlefield!  No, better to face Pa’s wrath now and be done with it.  Besides, the other way was just plain craven, and he had no business going to war if he was that.  He smoothed the stationery with his left hand, and with his right took up the pen and wrote:

 

Dear Pa,

Please read this in private before sharing any part with the boys.  I must now send you news that you will not want to hear.  I have made a decision I fear will not please you—to be honest, I’m sure it will not please you—but I feel that this is an action I must take.  There is a great conflict in this country, a great cause in which I believe, and I can no longer watch others take arms in that cause while I sit idly by.

President Lincoln has put out a call for men to serve a nine-month term, and I feel that I cannot deny that brief a commitment to my country at this critical time.  I have enlisted in the Union Army, in the new 27^th Connecticut regiment.  It only means delaying my education for one year, Pa; I will return to Yale when the term of enlistment ends.  I know you urged me to stay out of the “eastern conflict;” I know I promised that I would, that I would concentrate on my schooling and prepare myself to rebuild the nation after this terrible war is over.  I honestly thought I could, but I find myself unable to keep that promise.  I hope you will forgive this breach of my word, knowing that conscience requires it.  At any rate, the deed is done; I am a soldier.

At present, I am still in New Haven, at Camp Terry, but I am not sure where I’ll be by the time you receive this letter.  Our regiment should be filled by then, and I would expect to march out shortly thereafter, so I would suggest that you address any correspondence to Jamie until I can give you a more definite address.  Being closer, I can more readily keep him advised of my movements.”

 

There!  It was done!  Adam signed his name with a flourish of relief and set the pen down carefully, since it was borrowed from Jamie.  Had it been his own, he might have flung it out the window, just to signal the finality of the thing.  It wasn’t really final yet; he still had to post the vile thing, and he’d better do it quickly, before he lost his courage.  He’d have to take it into town to post, and he didn’t have time now.  Consulting the mantel clock, he realized that Jamie and Luke would be returning from class shortly, and they’d arranged for him to take lunch with them at their old eating club today.  He didn’t want to miss the chance to see old friends, and frankly, the chance of a better meal than the Army provided was not to be missed, either.  This afternoon he had already committed to Elizabeth, but there would be a post office on his way to her house.  He dared not delay any longer or his courage really might peter out.

Still having half an hour before the end of classes, he picked up his guitar and began to fondly strum the strings.  There wouldn’t be many more chances to play it, and he yielded, as well, to the temptation to sing along, although softly, just in case some student resident had elected to skip class this early in the term.

*****

The next few days fell into a routine that quickly grew old.  Mornings, when his friends were in classes and when Elizabeth deemed it too early for gentlemen callers, he wandered the “streets” of Camp Terry, making acquaintances as the 27^th Connecticut slowly grew in number.  He ran into a former classmate, Frank Alling, and learned from him that several others from their class had joined up, howbeit in different regiments, including his old friend, Henry Butler, who was in Massachusetts.

Afternoons, Elizabeth claimed most of his time, when he could obtain permission to leave camp, and that was always granted in those early days of the regiment.  While Adam stuck to the rules and asked, many men didn’t bother and, in fact, spent no more than one day in six in camp, showing up only often enough to avoid arrest for desertion.  The fourth man assigned to their tent, Michael Buford, apparently was such a one, for he availed himself of the option so frequently that one brief meeting was the extent of Adam’s acquaintance.

His time with Elizabeth was pleasant—indeed vital, he told himself—but restaurant lunches and hired conveyances and other activities the lady desired were eating into his savings.  If he lost his scholarship, he’d need those funds and what he could save from his meager private’s pay for next year’s expenses, and he found himself resenting the very thing he professed to yearn for.  He began to be glad when Elizabeth had something else to do and he could spend the afternoon hours with Jamie and Luke, helping them over rough spots in their assignments, although that also tended to make him envious of what he was missing.

His financial concern was alleviated when a letter arrived from the college.  Not wishing to penalize a young man for serving his country in time of crisis, the board had elected to defer his award for one year, after which time the scholarship would revert to the college, to be dispensed to the next candidate in line.  For Adam, it was the best possible resolution.  Since he was only serving nine months, a year’s deferment was all he needed, and should anything happen to him, the scholarship would go to his best friend, to be received when Jamie would need it most, after his own Hurlbut award ran out.  He was truly grateful and immediately wrote President Woolsey a letter of thanks.

One morning, while walking through camp, Adam sighted a new face in camp, one so unexpected that he stopped abruptly, mouth gaping open.  He looked like a mere boy, playing soldier in an older brother’s uniform, but people with his warm coloring often did look younger than they were.  No, it wasn’t the youthful appearance that took him off guard, and if he’d been back home, he wouldn’t have been surprised to see such a man at all.  But here?  He slowly became aware of a set of black eyes fixed on his own face and flushed.  “Sorry,” he said.  “I didn’t mean to stare.”

The other soldier smiled tentatively.  “You are surprised to see an Oriental reading Sophocles?”

Adam chuckled.  “I hadn’t even noticed what you were reading, but no, that wouldn’t have surprised me.  I know your people have a great respect for scholars, although I would have suspected Confucius would be your author of choice.”

“My people?” the man queried with an enigmatic inclination of his head.  “And who might they be?”

“Well, you’re Chinese, aren’t you?” Adam asked, laughing awkwardly.

“Ah, so,” the man said, the words sounding unfamiliar to his tongue, and Adam realized that until then he had been speaking excellent English with almost no trace of an accent.  “I was born there, yes.  Not raised there, however.  You will join me, perhaps?”

“Gladly,” Adam replied, pulling up a nearby crate as a seat.  “I’m Adam Cartwright, by the way.”

“And I am Antonio Dardelle.”

Adam felt his mouth fall open again.  “A Chinaman with an Italian name?  Or is it Spanish?  I do sense a good story, sir.”

Setting his book aside, Antonio laughed.  “Not half so interesting as you suspect, I fear.  I don’t know how I got the name or its origin.  I like to think it might be my father’s name.”

Reasonable, Adam realized since the creamy skin tones did hint at mixed heritage.

“I was orphaned early in life,” Antonio continued, “and when I was seven, Captain David Wright brought me to America.  I have lived in the household with him and his wife ever since, and they have been good enough to educate me, although not as much as is my fondest wish.  This is my country now, and it is now my turn to repay the kindness done to me in her defense.”

“A debt of honor,” Adam said.  “It is a concept the Chinese I know back home would understand well.”

It was Antonio’s turn to look surprised.  “Home is the West coast?” he guessed.  “I’ve heard many from the country of my birth live there.”

“As well as in Nevada, my home,” Adam responded.

“And how does a man from Nevada find himself in New Haven?  Now it is I who sense a good story.”

Adam chuckled.  “And I who laugh and say it is not half so interesting as you suspect.”

“Nonetheless,” Antonio said, “tell it to me.  Were you, too, brought here by a Yankee captain?”  He laughed lightly at his jest.

Adam laughed even louder.  “No, but I was taken from here by a Yankee first mate.”  Pulling his crate closer, he told the story of his New England birth, his journey west and his return to matriculate at Yale.  By the time he finished, each young private knew he had found a friend.

*****

As September gave way to October and the City of Elms changed from shades of emerald and olive to hues of garnet and gold, Adam’s life, too, underwent a transformation, from civilian to soldier.  The ranks of the 27^th Connecticut grew almost daily, and with the larger number came a need for organization.  Being a militia outfit, instead of the regular Army, each company’s men elected its own officers, and even on slight acquaintance, Adam was pleased with the caliber of men who would lead him, two of whom were men for whom he had voted.  His new captain, Joshua Livingstone, was a man in his thirties who seemed well educated, forthright and considerate of his subordinates, while the man chosen as 1^st lieutenant, Daniel Worthington, though considerably younger, was someone Adam sensed would be as worthy a leader as his name indicated.  The second lieutenant he scarcely knew and hadn’t voted for, but Harold McCarthy had a solid look about him, and since his fellow soldiers had chosen well for the top officers, he was inclined to trust their judgement on this one, as well.

Those officers selected the men to serve in lower noncommissioned ranks, and Adam was surprised to find himself asked to serve as sergeant major of the company.  He wrote the news home in hopes that Pa would be pleased, but he wouldn’t know for several more weeks, of course.  Mail delivery was still sloth-slow to and from the Far West.  His first letter had had time to reach Nevada, but it was too early to expect a response, however eagerly he answered mail call each morning.  For him, thus far, there’d been nothing, other than one letter from Jamie’s father, who had been both proud and concerned at the news of his enlistment.  Adam could only hope his own father’s reaction would be as temperate.

Jamie himself, who visited camp each weekend, was wildly enthusiastic about Adam’s promotion.  “I knew they’d see your worth!” he declared.

Adam laughed.  “I suspect it was more my book learning they were after.  From what I hear, the sergeant major is a glorified record keeper.  I suppose they thought anyone who could matriculate at Yale could probably handle that!”

Jamie scoffed at his friend’s modesty.  “I’m sure there’s more to it than that.”

“In camp, no; in battle, I think so,” Adam admitted, his pride in the promotion leaking out, as he added, “I’m on the regimental staff, not just the company.”

“Heady stuff,” Jamie said.

“Well, tell me about your own heady stuff,” Adam deflected.  “How are your classes going?”

“Heady stuff,” Jamie scoffed again.  “Classes are going well, of course, but it’s hard to face being a mere schoolboy when so many who sat beside me have taken on the role of men in the service of our country.”  He sighed.  “I can’t enlist, though; Father has absolutely forbidden it.”  He gave Adam a rueful smile.  “You, of course, wouldn’t let a little thing like that deter you, but you are a brave man, while I’m just a cowardly schoolboy.”

“It’s not cowardice in your case,” Adam said, shocked that his friend had even considered enlisting.  “For you, it’s common sense, a quality Cartwrights have historically lacked, at least in the eyes of their friends.”  More seriously, he said, “Your constitution simply isn’t strong enough for camp life, Jamie.”

“Ah, but I’d have my favorite Dr. Cartwright to keep me fit, if I enlisted,” Jamie said.

Adam was pleased to see the teasing smile that accompanied the reference to his constitution-building regime of the previous year, but answered soberly, “There’s no guarantee we’d be in the same company, you know.”  He added with a chuckle, “Besides, I’ll be too busy with my regimental record-keeping to keep you in line, chum.”

“Oh, yes, there’ll be so many records to keep while you’re here at Camp Terry,” Jamie said, poking Adam’s ribs with his elbow.

Adam was happy to laugh off his new responsibilities, although pride made him say, “There will be more to report, once we start morning drill on Monday.”

Jamie grinned.  “Indeed.  One must have an accurate count of how many recruits can’t tell their hay-foot from their straw-foot!”

*****

With the institution of daily drill, Adam’s mornings, at least, took on a more regulated structure.  He learned that he’d not only be keeping record of the movements, but also helping direct them.  “Apparently, someone told the officers about my brief—and I might add, completely unofficial—stint with the regular Army during the Paiute War,” he said to Marcus one evening, “and totally misconstrued the level of my experience with military routine.”

Marcus flushed slightly, but admitted nothing.  “Maybe they thought you’d be all the more qualified for your previous experience with unofficial soldiers,” he suggested.  “After all, isn’t that what we are—to the regular Army, I mean?”

Adam laughed.  “I suppose.  Perhaps I am uniquely qualified, after all, eh?  I intend to give it my best, at any rate.”  He buried his nose in the Army manual as intently as he’d ever studied Sophocles or Cato, while Marcus looked on, with the face of a man who’d dodged a bullet.

Adam soon learned that Jamie’s jest about recruits not knowing their hay-foot from their straw-foot was no joke, and he began to wish he had some hay and straw available to tie to their erring feet.  His tentmate, Michael Buford, finally forced to keep to camp more often, was one who could not tell his left foot from his right, though Adam suspected some of the errors were a deliberate attempt to get a rise out of him.  However, he was used to little brothers who suddenly found themselves unable to do what they had no desire to do, so he took no nonsense, but simply conveyed his confidence that Buford could and would do as ordered, and slowly he saw improvement.  His heart was still in his throat the day the captain inspected their drill, but he was able to run the men under him, Buford included, smoothly through the routine.  “Aw, now, sergeant,” Buford drawled afterward, “you didn’t think I’d be lettin’ you down, now did you?”

“I had full confidence in you,” Adam returned with a straight face, which broadened the mischievous grin on Buford’s, and from that moment Adam knew that any mistakes the private made would be genuine.

*****

On the second Saturday of the month, Jamie brought a fresh copy of the Yale Literary Magazine to Adam.  “You read it first,” the new sophomore insisted.  “Who knows how much more time you’ll have here at Camp Terry.  Besides, I have more than enough to read, just keeping up with the Olynthiacs of Demosthenes.”

“I believe you’re trying to make me jealous,” Adam teased.  Then, reaching into his pocket, he added, “I suppose I’d better pay my share of our subscription now, since I really don’t know how many more opportunities I’ll have to get it to you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jamie scolded.  “You won’t be here to enjoy it, so there’s no need for our previous agreement to stand.”

“I will not have you suffer for my decisions,” Adam said, his voice a bit terse, since they’d had this conversation before on similar matters.

“Suffer,” Jamie scoffed.  “How can you speak of a trivial expense as suffering with all that’s facing you, Adam!”

“I will not be responsible for causing you financial hardship!” Adam insisted.  “I’ve already been relieved of the necessity of paying my half of an unused dorm room, thanks to Lucas, but I most certainly will pay my half of anything else we’d agreed to share.  After all, I will be earning a paycheck, such as it is, whereas you, my learned friend, will not.  Therefore, it is only logical that I can better bear these paltry expenses than you.”  To lighten the rebuke, he laughed then and added, “Besides, you’ll be holding a place for me in the dorms next year, unless you decide you prefer Luke’s company.”

“Not a chance,” Jamie said with a grin, “but I realize now that the only reason you enlisted was to get away from the poor room we drew in the lottery this year, and for that you should pay, my military friend.”

“You’ve found me out,” Adam quipped dryly.  “After all, Army quarters will be so much more comfortable, especially when we reach the field.”  Seeing his friend grow more sober at that reminder of his ultimate destination, he quickly changed the subject.  “Speaking of the Lit., how’s your prize essay coming along?”

“Finished last night, turned it in this morning,” Jamie said.

“A week early!  That’s like you,” Adam praised.  “Be sure to send me a copy of the issue in which your winning work is published.”

“If I win,” Jamie laughed, “I shall send one to you, my father, your father, and both your baby brothers!”

“Oh, by all means!” Adam snorted.  “Little Joe will be particularly appreciative.  He’s five now, you know, and will no doubt be headed for Yale himself soon.”

*****

Dressed in full uniform, Adam walked down Chapel Street alongside Marcus, who was attired exactly like him, down to the calf-length frock coat.  Though the breeze was brisk, neither of them had the cape pulled over their heads, as it was designed to do.  Such comforts could wait for winter.  They didn’t really need the extra warmth in mid-autumn, but they’d decided to have their pictures taken in the stylish coats, in Adam’s case because he preferred to cover the more military look of the underlying uniform, though the stripe down the pants’ leg still showed.

“Is this it?” Marcus asked when Adam stopped before a shop with photographs in the window.

“Address is right,” Adam said, consulting the business card he’d been given.

Entering, they verified that this was, indeed, the studio of George Steiger, stated on the card to be the cheapest picture gallery in the city.  After a brief consultation with the artist, they decided to have their picture taken together.  Not only would it show their comradery, but it would save money, as would the selection of an ambrotype for their cartes de visite.  The extra expense for a daguerreotype or a solo likeness wouldn’t have stretched Adam’s means, but the choices they made were better for Marcus.  Besides, they each wanted several copies, and the ambrotype would give them eight from the same image, so sharing one sheet of photographs would meet both their needs.  Adam’s first would go to Elizabeth, of course, then copies to Jamie, his family back in Nevada, and, finally, one to Jamie’s father, while Marcus intended to give one to Lucas, as well as members of his family.

In the portrait they stood side by side, forage caps in hand and faces fixed in a sober expression, for what seemed an interminable time as the artist adjusted the camera.  Never had Adam thought just standing still could be so tiring, but the process couldn’t be rushed, and they dared not move if they wished not to blur the image captured.  Another brief wait while the photographer checked to be sure he’d gotten a good shot, and then they were free to go, Marcus back to camp and Adam on to another picnic with Elizabeth.

When they received their cartes de visite a few days later, he presented it to his girl as soon as possible.  As she looked at the shared likeness, a pout formed on her pretty lips.  “Am I supposed to guess which of you this is from?” she asked.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t think,” Adam gasped.  “We were trying to be conservative and . . .”

“Ooh!” she cried with what he hoped was feigned irritation.  “Always, always thinking of money, you penny pincher.”  Then, catching a glimpse of his woebegone face, she laughed it off.  “Well, perhaps, I like this better.  After all, I do love a man in uniform, and I suppose two is better than one.”

“Should I be jealous?” Adam said with a twisted smile.

She spatted his hand and then squeezed it.  “Of course not, silly.  He’s a good-looking lad, but can’t hold a candle to you.  Now, kiss and make up.”  And Adam willingly obliged.

 

Chapter 3

Marching as to War

 

Only four days later, the 829 men of the 27^th Connecticut mustered in, and that evening they at last started for the field.  Adam didn’t have time to get the word out, but somehow the people of New Haven, including those dearest to him, all knew and lined the streets to see the boys in blue march past.  Catching sight of Lucas and Jamie in the crowd, he gave a surreptitious nod, but when he saw Elizabeth, dressed in blue to honor him and waving a lacy handkerchief, he just had to wave back, Army discipline be hanged.  That day, however, no one was worrying about discipline.  The mood of both crowd and soldiers was festive, none of them paying much heed to when or even if they would again walk the streets of home or the hallowed halls of Yale.

It was a brief march, only to the depot, where they boarded the New York and New Haven Railroad, which Adam had ridden here little more than a month before.  The sights being familiar, he took a thin paperback from his knapsack and read with only an occasional look out the window to gauge his journey’s progress.  Soon after it grew too dark to read, the train pulled into the station in New York City, and they filed off and lined up to march to their campsite for the night.  No one in the city took any note of their arrival.  It was late, of course, but New Yorkers were probably already too satiated with soldiers to mark the appearance of more, or so Adam surmised.

Reaching City Park brought to his mind that day he had so frantically fought the crowd of other men seeking exemption from service.  Even then he had questioned whether to remain a student or become a soldier, and it was on the advice of his summer employer that he had sought the exemption, to keep his options open until he could decide.  Mr. Bracebridge had given him wise counsel, and though Adam had decided to join up, the exemption gave him the option of serving with men he knew, instead of being forced into a New York regiment.  Oh, he supposed, in time, he’d have felt much the same about the men he was thrown together with in any place, but he was glad to serve with his friends, Marcus Whitcomb and James Brand, as well as newer acquaintances like Antonio Dardelle and Saul Breckinridge.  A wry smile lifted one side of his mouth as he thought of his other tent mate, Michael Buford.  He wasn’t sure how much he trusted that one yet, but time would tell.

Once settled in their tent, he sought out his commanding officer to see if it would be possible to pay a short call on Mr. Bracebridge the next morning.  The man deserved to know that Adam wouldn’t be available to work for him next summer.  He could write, of course, but since he was so close, he hoped there would be time to pay a brief call and tell him in person.  Assured that the regiment would not be moving out until eleven, he was granted permission.  “You’ve proven yourself reliable,” Captain Livingstone said, “but don’t be late, Sergeant-Major.”

Adam saluted crisply.  “No, sir; I won’t.”

Good as his word, he was back well before the stated departure time, having soaked in the well wishes of the assembled associates and been assured by Mr. Bracebridge that there would always be a place for him whenever he was again available for work.   “Any word on where we’re headed?” he asked his tent mates, who were packed up and waiting and had been for hours.

“Other than south, you mean?” Buford asked with his lopsided grin.

“Other than south,” Adam said, resisting the temptation to roll his eyes.  Officers simply did not roll their eyes at privates, however ridiculous.

The grin widened, accompanied by a sloppy salute.  “No, sir!  Only south, sir!”

“I heard Port Monmouth, sir,” Breckinridge said.  He made no salute, his entire demeanor less martial, but more respectful.

“Thank you, corporal,” Adam said, and while he hadn’t rebuked Buford for lack of form, his warmer response conveyed approval of Breckinridge’s attitude.

Though he’d spent the summer in New York City, Adam was surprised to find that Port Monmouth was so close, just across the bay from Staten Island.  It wasn’t that easy to get there, though, especially not for an army.  Instead of ferrying there directly, the men of the 27^th Connecticut crossed the Hudson River by ferry and boarded a train for the trip down the coast.  Their stay in Port Monmouth was blissfully short, since a chilly wind was blowing off the bay, and then they boarded another train, this time bound for Philadelphia.

A surprise awaited them when they reached that destination, though their first reaction was alarm as they stepped down from the train to the sound of a booming cannon.  Was Philadelphia under attack?  Had the Rebels reached this far north?  Fears were quickly squelched when a well-dressed man mounted a barrel and called, “No need for alarm, boys!  That’s only ‘Fort Brown,’ our signal cannon.  We fire ‘er to let our volunteers know you’re coming.  You are welcome to our city, defenders of the Union!  To show that we are glad to see you, it gives us great pleasure to invite every man of you to partake of a hearty meal.”  A shout of approbation echoed over the rooftops of Philadelphia, and the weary men marched with quickened steps to a building with Union Volunteer Refreshment Saloon boldly painted beneath the peak of its roof.  To remove all doubt as to its intention, over the doorway they marched through more letters declared, “Free to Union Volunteers.”

Once inside, they stacked their rifles and knapsacks and proceeded to a row of washbasins, where both hot water and soap were supplied for their use.  To Adam, that sight was almost more welcome than the promised meal, for two days of steady travel had left him dusty and sweaty, and he eagerly rolled his sleeves up to the elbows and washed his arms, as well as his face and neck.  A snowy white towel lay nearby to finish his preparation for the dinner, which waited in the next room.

Five long tables, covered with white cloths and set with tin plates and cups, reached almost end to end.  Along with the rest of his regiment, Adam took a seat and filled his plate from the abundant supply of boiled ham, bologna, sausage, cheese and pickles and reached eagerly for the fresh-baked bread and churned butter placed at intervals along the tables.  A woman with a touch of gray in her hair filled his cup with steaming hot coffee, and he thanked her warmly.

“Our pleasure, soldier,” she said.  “Glad to do our bit for the Union.  You eat up and enjoy . . . and there’s cake tonight,” she added in a whisper.  “I’ll see you get a piece.”

“Thank you,” Adam whispered back, more grateful than ever that his father had schooled him in the virtue of expressing appreciation for any kindness.

When he was full, almost to the point of bursting, he wandered into the next room, where he found stationery supplies, including stamped envelopes.  Not knowing how much time he had, he tucked them inside his shirt and took advantage of the copies of The Philadelphia Evening Bulletin lying about and caught up on the current events of the day, something he was as hungry for as a good meal.  By the time he’d read all the news of more than local interest, he still hadn’t heard the call to line up and march out, so he took out the writing supplies and began a letter to Hoss, who he thought would be most interested in the good treatment he’d received at the Philadelphia refreshment saloon . . . especially that delicious pound cake with lemon sauce!  “No doubt made from that same essence of lemon your mother used to make lemonade along the trail,” he told his younger brother.

He had no sooner finished the letter, sealed it and left it in the box for outgoing mail than the order to leave came.  In good humor they marched back to the train depot and boarded the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad, but their high spirits dampened when they learned their next destination.  The name of no northern city was more calculated to send shivers up the spine of any man in blue than Baltimore, Maryland.  Even before the war began, the city was known as a hotbed of secessionists. Why, Abraham Lincoln himself had had to be smuggled through it on the way to his inauguration by Allan Pinkerton and his detectives!  Baltimore was also where the first blood of the war had been shed, when Union soldiers just like them had been attacked while making the same ten-block journey to transfer to another train line.

“Why couldn’t we just have stayed in Philadelphia and traveled straight through in the morning?” Private Buford groused to anyone within earshot.

“Because the army doesn’t work that way,” Corporal Breckinridge grunted in as close to a complaint as Adam had ever heard him make.

“Don’t I just know it!” Buford declared.

Adam only smiled at the give-and-take, but it wasn’t a smile that reached his eyes.  He was nervous about going through Baltimore, too.  When they left the train, he learned they’d be spending the night on the streets of that city, which only heightened the tension each man felt.  It was late when they arrived, and few people were about, but those who were stared at them with either indifference or barely concealed hostility.  Adam found himself siding with complainers like Buford, yearning for the comforts and security of loyal Philadelphia.  The yearning only grew stronger the next day, almost the entirety of which they spent on those same streets with little to be thankful for except the tall buildings that blocked some of the wind tunneling down the streets.  None of the men had slept much the night before, and they found little rest that day, but other than hoots of derision, they suffered no trouble.

That evening, to the same hoots and catcalls, they were able to board the horse cars that would take them to the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, a luxury the 6^th Massachusetts had not been afforded that April day in 1861.  The 27^th Connecticut traveled the same route down Pratt Street to Camden Station, and one and all breathed a sigh of relief as the train pulled out of seditious Baltimore.  A wave of excitement rippled through the cars when the soldiers realized they were bound for Washington, D. C., to take up the defense of the nation’s capital, but they were so exhausted that even excitement couldn’t long keep their snores from singing an offkey duet with the clatter of the wheels on the rails.

*****

The next morning the regiment reached Washington and marched to Camp Seward on Arlington Heights.  There they set up long rows of A-tents in what had once been Robert E. Lee’s peach orchard.  Clouds gathered overhead as they worked, and a slow drizzle began, soon giving way to large drops.  The soil beneath them softened as the rain increased, and it wasn’t long before the troops felt their feet sinking into the mire.  “Guess all that talk ‘bout Virginia mud was more’n just generals excusin’ theirselves,” Private Buford drawled as he, Adam, Marcus and Saul struggled to raise their tent.

The rain continued, with little letup, all the next day.  As the sun was setting that night, the wind blew stronger.  It came howling over the ridge, tearing tents loose from the ground, and the rain pelted the hapless heads of the newly homeless.  Drawing on his trail experience, Adam had securely pegged his own quartet’s tent, but he was quick to dash into the rain to help others less skillful, even beyond his own company.  Though he little suspected it, officers throughout the regiment noted his willingness to work and his skill in organizing other men.

By chance, the last tent he helped to re-raise housed his Chinese friend, Antonio Dardelle.  “Come in and dry out awhile,” one of the other tentmates suggested.  Being drenched to the skin, Adam was quick to accept the invitation.

After making introductions all around, Antonio offered, “Sergeant-Major Cartwright has had battle experience.  Perhaps, as a seasoned soldier, he could give us some idea of what’s ahead for us.”

As the other three privates clamored for this preview of battle, Adam looked askance at his friend and tried to laugh off the suggestion.  “Private Dardelle greatly exaggerates my experience.  Since the Paiute Indian War didn’t last long, you’ll soon be as ‘seasoned’ as I!  The Indians fought bravely and well, but they had no chance against a trained army.  I fear this conflict will be of much greater duration.”

Though impressed by Adam’s modesty and self-effacing humor, all four privates still implored to be told the story, and to oblige them, Adam did his best to describe the battle of Pyramid Lake.  He emphasized, however, that their battles would be different.  “We’re going against another trained army,” he said, “and they’ve proven themselves stalwart fighters, at Manassas and Antietam, for instance.  We won’t be having ‘a man for breakfast’ any more than those Virginia City men did.  My best advice, as a ‘seasoned soldier,’ is to assume nothing and be prepared for anything.”

“Thank you, sir; we will,” one of the privates said as Adam stood to leave.  Antonio shook the hand offered him, and the others saluted, not so much in respect of the rank as of the man.

“Once more unto the breach,” Adam said with a shiver as he stepped into the still drenching rain and trotted back to his own tent.

*****

The following day about noon the order came to strike tents, pack up and be prepared to move camp a few miles further up the Potomac River.  Adam was thankful that the sky was cloudy, but dry, as they waited hours in the open until they finally marched out late that evening.  They crossed into Georgetown over the Aqueduct Bridge and followed the river up to the Chain Bridge, where they crossed back over to the left bank.  Due to their late start, the soldiers didn’t make it to their new camp, near as it was, but not bothering to set up tents for what remained of the night, they bivouacked around huge fires under the open sky.

When they reached their final destination the next morning and began to set up Camp Tuttle, Adam hoped the 27^th Connecticut might stay here more than the day or so that had been the Army’s habit thus far.  The situation was the most pleasant yet, more so than even Camp Terry back in familiar New Haven.  They camped on rising ground with a thick forest to their left and front, while across the road to the right, three more regiments, from New Jersey and Pennsylvania, had established their camps.  Best of all for the budding young architect, he could see in the distance the dome of the Capitol.  Though it was still under construction, the coming grace and beauty of line was already discernible, and he couldn’t wait for his first off-duty hours, when he might travel into Washington, D. C. and sketch it.

Somewhat disconcerting was the age of their new commanding officer, Brigadier General John Joseph Abercrombie.  Sixty-three was the rumor, and the snowy beard and tired face made him look every bit of it.  Why, he was older than Pa!  Of course, Pa had acquitted himself well back in the Paiute War, and age often carried with it experience, but Adam couldn’t help hoping they’d find someone younger to actually lead them into battle.  Abercrombie was probably fit enough to man the defense of Washington, though.  Unless worse came to worst, the Rebels wouldn’t reach this far north.

It was the 27^th’s own Colonel Bostwick, a man in his early 30’s, who was their real leader, anyway, and as soon as their camp was established, he issued an immediate regimental order for a program of daily duty fuller than what they’d followed back in Camp Terry.  Up at 6 a.m. for Reveille, followed by breakfast.  Guard mounting at 8, two hours of company drill from 9 to 11, a break for lunch, and then two more hours of drill kept them busy until 2 in the afternoon.  An hour’s rest and they were right back at it, with battalion drill from 3 to 4 and, finally, dress parade at 5 and then dinner, after which they were free for the evening until Tattoo sounded at 9, to prepare them for Taps and a well-earned night’s sleep at 9:30.  Then up at 6 the next morning to start it all again.

*****

Sunday brought the soldiers a well-earned reprieve from drill, and after weekly inspection they were free for the day.  Adam was eager to make the anticipated trip into town and was pleased to secure permission.  Before he went, though, he jotted a short note to Little Joe, whom he had neglected in the last letters he sent home.  It was hard, sometimes, to know what to say to the little fellow, but Adam thought he’d found the right news in his words about the rain and mud and the rarity of baths in a soldier’s camp.  “Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, little brother?” he wrote near the close of the letter, following it with instructions to give Hoss and Pa a big hug for him.  Hoss, at least, would appreciate it.  He wasn’t sure about Pa; he still hadn’t heard from him since joining the Army against his wishes.

It was close enough to noon by the time he finished the letter that he decided to stay in camp for the midday meal and then walk into town.  He headed straight for the Capitol building, taking with him a sketchbook he’d purchased in New Haven at Jamie’s suggestion.  “I remember the drawings you made along the trail when you were traveling west,” his friend said.  “It was almost like being along with you on your journey, and I’d like to feel I’m with you now, too.”

This drawing wouldn’t go to Jamie, of course, although he might include a smaller sketch of the Capitol in his next letter.  No, this one would go to Mr. Bracebridge, and therefore, it needed special attention.  Getting the lines just right took most of the afternoon, but he arrived back at Camp Tuttle with plenty of time to package the drawings for shipment to New York.  He sighed as he folded his sketches repeatedly to fit them into the standard-sized envelope available in camp.  He would have preferred to mail them flat in a larger one and would have considered it worth the expense of its purchase, as well as the extra postage for civilian mail.  Post offices were closed on Sunday, however, and Sundays were probably the only day off he could count on while a soldier.  He included a short note to Mr. Bracebridge, asking that he hold all such renderings at the office until his Army commitment was complete, as he didn’t wish to risk losing them to either the vagaries of camp life or the everlasting rain.  “I would, of course, welcome your evaluation of my work, if you care to write,” he wrote, adding his current address before enclosing the letter with the sketch, sealing the envelope and writing “Soldiers Mail” on the outside, which took the place of postage stamps for the military.

He finished with little time to spare before the nightly dress parade.  After it, however, an announcement was made that, for a brief time, at least, excited the whole camp.  The Rebels were rumored to be on the move toward Leesburg, only forty miles from Washington, and the Army might be called into action any time that night.  A frisson of some unidentified feeling ran up and down Adam’s spine.  He wasn’t sure if it was excitement, like the other raw recruits were expressing, or simple satisfaction that he was finally going to be put to some use in this war between the states or, perhaps, plain fear.  A reasonable amount of that was mixed in, he was sure, but he sensed that his dread didn’t rise just from fear of his own fate, of the body, at least.  Fear for his soul?  Perhaps.  He didn’t want to kill other Americans, any more than he’d wanted to kill Paiutes in the war back home.  He finally gave himself a sound scolding.  “You knew this day was coming,” he told himself internally, “and there’s no going back now.  Do what you must . . . for your country, your family, your fellow men in arms—and last of all, for your own life.”  That determination seemed to settle him, and he was finally able to catch a few hours’ sleep.

The next morning he felt ridiculous, for the rumors fizzled with the dawn.  There had been no call to arms; the Rebels weren’t near Leesburg, and all his worry was wasted.  In the future, he’d spurn such nonsense.  At least, he’d try.

*****

Later that week Adam was detailed to organize a squad of men for picket duty.  The hard part, of course, was deciding who would not go, for everyone welcomed the break from drill.  The dozen men he selected included his own tentmates, however self-serving others might view the choice.  It probably was, Adam admitted to himself, but after all, he had to sleep with these men, and it was hard to sleep with grumblers.  Besides, they were as deserving as anyone else, at least two of them more than most.  Michael Buford, who was no better than average as a soldier, was welcome to come ride their coattails this time.

They marched out that morning, moving several miles down the Leesburg Pike and arrived at the village of Langley about 10:00.  There they joined a line of pickets along the main road from the center of town and the cross road coming from the south, which connected with the turnpike just before reaching the town.  The duty wasn’t arduous, only requiring that they check the authority of those on the road.  Though some in this southern-leaning village resented the intrusion, they’d already become accustomed to it by the time Adam and his squad relieved the pickets on duty, and no one gave them any problems.

Since they only had to stand picket two hours out of every six, the task wasn’t even tiring, and they were fortunate to have a house to rest in during their time off.  Since there were only twelve houses in town, not every squad was as fortunate, but earlier pickets had constructed brush huts for shelter.  A couple were the worse for wear, though.  Seeing that, Adam used some of his rest time to see those men better housed, even though they were from another company, again unwittingly drawing the approval of those men and the officers who led them.

“Sarge,” Buford greeted him when he returned to the house assigned to them, “I been scoutin’ the town for opportunities, and . . .”

“And I can only imagine what you might consider an ‘opportunity,’ Private,” Adam interrupted with twitching lips.

“Opportunity for a decent meal, sir,” the private said, raising his hand in a waggish salute.  “There’s an eatin’ place here in town, and bein’ as it’s past noon, sir, I was wonderin’ if we shouldn’t give ‘em our business.”

“Wouldn’t that be fraternizin’ with the enemy?” Adam suggested, pursing his lips afterwards to simulate a thoughtful frown.

He was so successful in disguising his true feelings that Buford was caught off guard, but it took him only a moment to come up with a response.  “Oh, no, sir!  Not at all, on account of civilians are not our enemy, sir, just Rebel soldiers.  In fact, sir, we probably should cultivate good relations with these folks, win ‘em back to the straight and narrow, so to speak.”  He bobbed his head in earnest affirmation of what he was sure was an irrefutable argument, although he didn’t have the vocabulary to call it that.

Adam couldn’t any longer hold back the burst of laughter that had been tickling his throat since he walked in.

Misreading the sound, Buford transformed from Union soldier to pleading child in about a second.  “Aw, please, Sarge!  We all need a break from Army chow.”

Corporal Breckinridge, who had understood what the laughter meant, grinned and added, “We really do, sir, and I’ve had reports that this restaurant serves a decent meal.”

“Please, Adam?” Marcus put in, in his desire forgetting the formality now required to address his friend.

Adam didn’t bother correcting the rare lapse.  “It never entered my mind to turn down an opportunity like this, men.  I’m as weary of Army fare as you.  Any idea what’s on the menu?”

Though the question was addressed to all, typically it was Buford who answered.  “All I’ve heard is that it changes from day to day, sir, dependin’ on what’s to hand.”

“I’ll chance it,” Marcus said, and was quickly echoed by Saul Breckinridge.

“Unless it’s something as peculiar as possum, I will, as well,” Adam said with a grin.  “Lead the way, Private Buford.”

Buford cheerfully led them down the street to a building labeled “Resterant.”

Adam cocked his head in apparent appraisal.  “Well, much as I—and, I suspect, Corporal Breckinridge—value correct spelling, lack of scholarship does not necessarily equate with poor culinary skills.  In fact, often the opposite.”

“Huh?” Buford said, not having noticed the misspelling and feeling somewhat dazed by the rest of what Adam had said.

“Humble cooks who are accustomed to working with what they have on hand are often the best,” Adam simplified.

“Oh!  Yes, sir!”  Sure now of getting what he wanted, Buford saluted with as great a demonstration of military precision as any officer could desire.

They entered and took a table.  Though the proprietor frowned at their blue uniforms, business was business, so he responded courteously enough to Adam’s inquiry about what was available for dinner.  “Chicken and dumplings,” he said, his partisanship leaking through when he added, “a good Southern dish.”

“It is, indeed,” Adam said with winning enthusiasm.  Though Nelly Thomas, back home, was not a Southerner, he’d eaten it at her table any number of times.  “Four large helpings of that delicious dish, if you please.”

“Very good, sir.”  The proprietor still wasn’t warm in his response, but Adam’s manner had won them better than average respect.  And his compliments to the cook, as well as the generous tip he left, ensured that they’d be welcome back for their second day of picket duty, as well.

As they marched back to Camp Tuttle the following evening, they all wished they could draw picket duty more than once a fortnight.  Typically, only Michael Buford stated it outright.

“You’d feel differently if it were raining!” Adam laughed.  “Then you’d long for your snug tent!”

“Drilling in the rain is still worse,” Buford argued, “and we had a house there!”

“Too true,” Adam admitted, “and I don’t relish the return to drill any more than you, Private, but no more bellyaching.”

“No, sir, not at all,” the private replied.

Satisfied, Adam led on down the turnpike, reflecting on the times he, Pa and Inger had huddled inside their trailside tent during fierce rainstorms.  The storms here didn’t seem half so threatening as those had been, perhaps because he’d been a child or, perhaps, there really had been more lightning piercing the sky, more thunder cracking the air.  Maybe that was something he could write to Hoss.  The memory of his mother would please his little brother, and, maybe, he could draw a lesson from it, too.  “The things you fear today—like the dark, for instance,” he might write, “will seem much smaller when you’re older.”  A good lesson for him, too, perhaps.  Would the fears he felt about going into battle one day fade in memory like his little-boy recollections of thunder and lightning?

*****

The weather seemed to grow colder by the day, perhaps in part because Adam and his friends had no cozy house to return to after two hours light labor.  He had almost concluded that picket duty made a man lazy and overly concerned about creature comforts, but when they woke Saturday to snow-covered ground, he reversed that opinion.  The increasing cold was all too real, and drill that day was truly miserable.  Though he had intended to spend Sunday sketching in town again, he quickly opted for visiting with friends in other companies like James Brand and Antonio Dardelle, with whom he had a spirited discussion comparing the viewpoints of European and Oriental philosophers.

Monday morning brought news both welcome and unwelcome, at least to more seasoned soldiers than the 27^th Connecticut.  Many of the veteran soldiers were angered to hear that General McClellan had been replaced by General Ambrose Burnside as Commander of the Army of the Potomac.  McClellan had been popular with the men, who felt themselves well cared for under his leadership.  Too well cared for, some alleged, for McClellan had seemed reluctant to hazard his soldiers in battle, and apparently, President Lincoln agreed, having accused the general of having “the slows,” or so camp gossip said.

The other news, however, was welcome, indeed.  Due to the obvious approach of winter and the increasing likelihood of their staying in the Washington, D. C. area for the foreseeable future, drill was suspended in favor of building sturdy log cabins for their winter quarters.  Since Connecticut had long ceased to be a frontier, most of the men, even those of rural background, had known only frame houses.  Being one of the few who’d even seen a log cabin, Adam was not surprised when he was asked to lead a team in constructing those for his own company.  “Nothing fancy,” Lieutenant Worthington directed, passing on directions from above.  “One room should do.  No doubt your architectural experience will be wasted on such a simple project, but I’m confident you will get us under shelter quicker than most.”

Surprised that the officer even knew about his brief architectural experience, Adam secretly thought his frontier roots would prove a greater asset.  Though he’d only built a couple of line cabins in recent years, his memories of helping construct the cabin his family had shared with the Thomases along the Carson River were still strong.  “One-room cabins; that will be best, sir,” he quickly agreed, “although I might suggest two rooms for the officers, one for sleep and the other for the necessary business of the company.”

The lieutenant’s smile broadened.  “Excellent suggestion!  I knew it would pay to put an architect in charge.”

Adam grinned and shook his head.  “I’m scarcely that, sir, but I’m confident I can handle this job.”

“I’m confident, too.  I’ve heard good reports of you, Sergeant Major, and though we are only a nine-month regiment, I have no doubt you’ll be mustering out with a higher rank than that.”  With a salute he dismissed his flabbergasted subordinate.

Adam quickly went to work organizing a detail to cut pine logs and haul them from the nearby forest.  There was some grousing from the men, of course, for it was hard work, but most took the long view and looked forward to the warmth they’d enjoy inside those cabins.

The warmth was luxurious . . . but, alas, not destined to endure.  Adam and his men had enjoyed those cozy cabins little more than a week when they were ordered to vacate them.  On November 18, they struck tents, packed their belongings and marched to nearby Hall’s Hill with orders to construct the regimental camp.  “Proved ourselves too valuable,” Private Buford complained as they marched through a bombardment of rain that turned the snow beneath their feet to slush.  Feeling at least partially responsible for that proving, Adam hadn’t the heart to rebuke him.  Maybe he had stars of future promotion in his eyes, but he was proud of the job they had done, and if they had to do it all over again for those at a higher level of command, he’d do that proudly, too.  At least, it was better than the eternal drilling in preparation for battles they seemed destined never to join.

The rain was still pouring as they arrived on the hill and, first of all, built huge fires of the brush and stumps littering the ground.  After warming a bit, the men put up their tents and by evening they were huddling in them with only fond memories of the cabins they had left behind.  “Sergeant-Major,” Michael Buford said as he stretched his hands toward the fire.  “I hear we’re mighty near where McClellan camped last winter.  No more than a mile, they say.”

“That’s interesting, Adam said cautiously.  The respectful use of his full title was revealing.  Private Buford wanted something.

“Yes, sir,” Buford said, “and I was thinking . . .”

“A rarity, indeed,” Saul Breckinridge put in.

The respect didn’t extend to a mere corporal, so Buford waved him off and continued as if there’d been no interruption.  “That many a useful thing probably got left behind, ‘cause they left in sort of a hurry, you know.”

“That’s probably true,” Adam observed, still cautious.

It was as much encouragement as the private needed.  “Yes, sir, and I was thinkin’”—a glare silenced interruption from the corporal—“that it might be a good idea if some of us paid the old camp a visit and sort of foraged the grounds.”

“Thereby avoiding the work of building the new camp,” Adam said dryly.

“Yes, sir.  I mean, no, sir!  Not to avoid work.  Of course not, sir, but there could even be materials we could use for building, so you might say this would be a work party.  No sense felling new logs, if we can just harvest what’s there, wouldn’t you say?”

“I have to admit, I would,” Marcus put in.

“It does make a bit of sense,” Corporal Breckinridge added.

“How large a party are we discussing?” Adam asked.

“Oh, not large,” Buford hastened to say.  “Four, five . . . maybe as many as eight.”

“And do you have that many friends eager to escape work here?” Adam inquired with a sardonic droll.

“Oh, yes, sir, at least that many.”  At the burst of laughter that met his response, Buford belatedly caught the thrust of Adam’s question and reverted to form as he half-whined, “Aw, Sarge.”

“All right, Private,” Adam said, holding back the chuckles.  “I’ll put in a request on your behalf.  I take it you two also wish to join this scavenger hunt?”

Saul and Marcus quickly admitted they did, and Adam left the warm campfire to make the request of Second Lieutenant Harold McCarthy, who didn’t need much persuasion.  If the man who had been dubbed “regimental architect” thought the hunt a worthy idea, it was good enough for him, so he passed the request up the line, and by morning permission had come back down it.

Adam himself stayed behind, living up to his new title by sketching out a plan for the new regimental encampment.  He’d no sooner completed his rough drawings, however, than orders were changed.  The enemy was said to be threatening General Sigel at Centreville, no more than thirty miles from the capital, and all reserve regiments attached to the defense of Washington were called to be ready for any emergency.  Whatever the scavengers had found was forgotten when they returned to camp and found everyone in a bustle to pack up, and they joined the hubbub, as well.  That evening, however, a fierce storm blew in and lasted several days.  By the time it ended, apparently their help was no longer needed, for the orders were countermanded.

“Typical Army,” Private Buford groused.  “Hurry up and do nothin’.  Makes a man wonder why he enlisted.”

Adam frowned at him, which effectively silenced any further complaint, but he felt much the same.  He’d postponed his education and agreed to hazard his life for nine months to preserve the Union, like most of the soldiers, and unlike the majority, also to free an enslaved people, but it appeared that all he’d be doing for the duration of his enlistment was shivering in inadequate shelter while Mother Nature bombarded them with all the freezing rain, sleet and snow in the storehouses of heaven.

*****

Warming the hearts of the entire regiment, mail arrived in the midst of the storm.  For Adam, it was a veritable feast of communication.  There was a letter from Jamie, his most faithful correspondent, and another from Elizabeth, which would ordinarily have been the first he opened, but when he checked to see whether one of the other two was also from her with an earlier postmark, he saw that they were both from Nevada, which immediately gave them priority.  Pa!  At last.  He opened the earlier one anxiously, knowing it would reveal his father’s long-awaited reaction to his enlistment.  Slitting the envelope carefully, he drew out the single sheet, unfolded it, took a bolstering breath that was, perhaps, more prayer than respiration, and finally forced his eyes to the page.  He read slowly, wincing at every word, for it was as bad as he’d feared, so bad, in fact, that he was surprised he hadn’t actually heard the explosion all the way from Nevada.  There wasn’t a word of Ben Cartwright’s diatribe that he hadn’t anticipated, but it hurt more than he had imagined.  By the time he finished, he wondered if his father would ever forgive him.

He looked at the next envelope and debated whether to open the other letter.  Realizing, however, that it had been mailed the day after the first, he decided it was probably from Hoss or, perhaps, both his little brothers.  Hoss, he could trust not to ream him out the way Pa had, and feeling he could use a little brotherly love about now, he opened it without fear . . . until he saw the salutation: Dear Son.  He closed his eyes.  Pa again.  Apparently, his father thought he needed another earful of his opinion of a son who didn’t heed his advice about staying out of eastern conflicts.  Adam had no desire to read that!  He started to toss the letter away in disgust when a flush of shame stopped him.  What business did he have marching to war, to face the bullets of the Rebels, if he couldn’t face a barrage of words from his own father.  Spurning such cowardice, he sighed and forced himself to read on.

He was glad he did, for the second letter could not have been more different from the first.  It was, in fact, a deeply moving apology for what had been sent only a day before.  “I still don’t agree with your decision, son,” it read, “and profoundly wish you had made a different one, but I realize you are a man now and entitled to follow your own conscience.  Since you made this decision with full knowledge of my opposition, I can only assume, as you said, that it is a matter of conscience, and I respect you for that.  I hope you will understand that it was only fear and concern for you, for your safety—for your very life, in fact—that motivated those harsh words yesterday and not simple anger.  Please forgive me.  I am proud of you, have always been proud of you, never more than when I see you willing to risk that pride for what you believe is right.  Please keep in touch, son.  Every letter will be eagerly and, I must admit, anxiously awaited.  Spare me nothing.  I will be careful what I pass on to your younger brothers, so don’t hesitate to tell me all: simple hardships, dangers, fears, everything.  Please do me this kindness: let me be your father still.  Even at such great distance, I promise I will be there for you.”

There were tears in Adam’s eyes as he read the final words.  Leaving letters from both Jamie and Elizabeth unopened, he took out stationery and pen and began at once to follow his father’s instruction to keep in touch and tell all.  There was nothing in it that couldn’t be read to his little brothers, except possibly, the outpouring of his heart in response to his father’s words.

Emotionally depleted, he saved the letter from Elizabeth for later and opened the one from Jamie next.  He found it filled with the sort of news to set him on an even keel again.  Jamie hadn’t won the Yale Lit. prize, but a faculty member serving as judge had complimented his work and urged that he try again next year.  “Of course, I’ll have you to contend with next year,” Jamie wrote, “and that will make it almost impossible for me to win, but I intend to try!”

As soon as time permitted, which was, of course, after reading Elizabeth’s short, but amorous note, Adam wrote back to say he’d be glad to compete with his friend, although he expected to come in second.  “After all, chum,” he wrote, “you have always been stronger in languages than I.  Remember, however, there’s also a competition in mathematics; watch out for me in that!”  He also wrote to thank Jamie for forwarding his father’s letters and shared what Pa had written in both of them, trusting his friend to understand.  He later wondered why he had omitted the same news from his return letter to Elizabeth, the love of his life, but it wasn’t, after all, the sort of news she would find interesting.  Oddly enough for a young girl, she preferred to hear the details of Army life, though she continually posed the uncomfortable question of when his unit would actually get involved in the war itself.  He had no answer to that and there wasn’t much else to write except the bad weather that kept them from doing almost anything.

That was soon to change.

*****

First, though, came a day all the men, veteran soldier and new recruit alike, greeted with expectation.  Thanksgiving wasn’t what it would have been back home or even, for Adam, what it had been last year at Yale.  There it would have been preceded by the entertainment of the Thanksgiving Jubilee the night before and greeted on the day with a sumptuous feast at his old eating club.  The food here wasn’t sumptuous, but the meal was better than usual: chicken with potatoes and gravy.  No stuffing or cranberry sauce, and it was a rare company mess than featured a green vegetable.  Certainly no pumpkin pie, unless you were an officer, but veterans assured recruits that they were blessed to celebrate the day so close to decent supplies.

“If you was in the field,” the newer men were told, “you’d probably get naught but a Lincoln biscuit and coffee.”   Hardtack, Adam interpreted.  He remembered it from the trail west, when the wagon train had occasionally had to rely on the rock-hard bread, and while he’d just as soon never taste it again, he knew it was the most practical meal for men on the march.  Today, though, he’d enjoy a better meal and a day free from drill, and if that wasn’t cause enough for Thanksgiving, it should be.

*****

Sunday, the last day of November, dawned with a beautifully clear sky, and Adam exulted in expectation of a leisurely day in the fresh air and mild winter sunshine.  Instead, the regiment, indeed the entire brigade, was given marching orders for 9:00 the next morning.

“Again?” Michael Buford asked with skewed mouth.  “Reckon they mean it this time?”

Apparently, they did, for the cooks were soon busy, preparing rations for the march, and the enlisted men began to arrange their belongings for easy carrying.  Adam was kept busy both making his own preparations and overseeing those of the men in his company, so by the end of the day, he had time only to dash off one quick note before lights out.  He elected to send it to Jamie, along with a request to inform Elizabeth and any other interested party.  “I’ll leave it to your judgement when to write Pa,” he told his friend.  “All I can say now is that we’re marching south, destination unknown, and that might do nothing but alarm him.  When I know more, I’ll write you first, with information on how to reach me.”  Elizabeth would probably feel spurned, but it couldn’t be helped.  Jamie was a more reliable transmitter of news to everyone who needed to know, and this way any letter to his girl could focus on the sort of thing she liked most to hear.

Promptly at nine the next morning, the 27^th Connecticut and others in the brigade began their march, moving through Georgetown and Washington, D. C., and on down the Potomac River, fifteen miles in all before setting up their tents in the roadside woods of silver maple, poplar and sycamore.  Their comfortable A-tents had been left behind; from now on they’d use shelter tents, which only housed two men, instead of four.  While Adam would have preferred to keep company with a personal friend like Marcus, he was an officer now, so it seemed more appropriate to share quarters with Corporal Saul Breckinridge and let the two privates join forces.  It was a simple matter to hook their two shelter halves together to make the tent, but they turned in with no more idea of where they were headed than they’d had that morning.  The Army did like to keep its secrets, and if they were headed into battle, maybe that was a good thing.  Less chance of alerting the enemy if even their own soldiers were kept in the dark.

Underway by 8 a.m. on the second day of December, they marched twenty miles.  The wide fields on either side lay fallow in the winter chill, but showed promise of prosperity in the spring to come.  Adam had his first glimpse of the dark men for whose freedom he was fighting as wide eyes stared at them from gateways to plantations, for though Maryland hadn’t left the Union, it was still a slave-holding state.  A few called tentative greetings, but most of the ebony eyes peered at them in silent suspicion and Adam couldn’t blame them.  Who knew what they’d been told about the blue coats marching through their land?

One young lad, bolder than most, tried to join the column and march along with the soldiers.  Apparently, the planters of the region had anticipated such problems, for they were patrolling the roads.  They quickly found the one black face among so many white ones and pulled him away, to what fate Adam dared not imagine.  There was nothing he could do to help the boy, though.  Slavery was not illegal here, and a planter could do whatever he wished with his property, whether land, livestock or human.

The next day’s march brought them within three miles of Port Tobacco, where they camped on the grounds of a secessionist planter and helped themselves to his hay and straw.  “I understand confiscation in time of war,” Adam complained to Saul Breckinridge inside their shelter tent that night, “but I still feel like a thief.  Someone worked hard to put up that hay!”

“True enough,” Corporal Breckinridge replied, “but it wasn’t the planter who did the work, sir.  And by that way of reasoning, the hay was already stolen from those who did do the work.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Adam said.  He was reminded again of the “contraband” he’d seen recaptured the day before and how he’d wished he could hide that boy in his knapsack until they were clear of the patrols.  Not practical, of course, with them marching further into slave-holding territory by the day, but impracticality didn’t stop the yearning.

Passing through a rather ordinary-looking town the following day, they saw almost nothing of the local population.  That alone told the soldiers they weren’t marching through friendly territory, for Unionists typically lined the streets, cheering.  No trouble, however, and perhaps that was as much as the boys in blue could ask this near the border of the Confederacy.  Each day brought them closer to their final destination, still unknown, but speculation was beginning to fix upon the town of Fredericksburg.  It seemed logical since they couldn’t have been more than two days’ march from there under the cooperatively clear skies.

They ceased to be cooperative the next day, and by the time the soldiers reached Liverpool Point on the Potomac, they were pelted continually with rain that chilled them through to the bone.  There was no let up as they stood, unsheltered, for two hours, waiting to be ferried across the river into the eagerly anticipated and ominously dreaded state of Virginia.  During those two hours, rain changed to lashing snow, sharp as any whip.  More miserable than Pyramid Lake, Adam mused, wondering if he dared share that with his worrying family back in Nevada.  “Dear Pa, I may be in more danger from pneumonia than enemy bullets” scarcely seemed the right sort of news to send home.  By the time they crossed over to Acquia Landing, the adjacent hills were covered with thick, frosty blankets that made Adam wish for one of rabbit skins, like the Paiutes made back home.

The village of Acquia Creek, like the mythological Phoenix, was again rising from the ashes of numerous burnings that declared what a location of contention it had been.  Carpenters were busily building storehouses to hold the shipments of supplies, even now being offloaded from every manner of vessel for eventual shipment to the Army of the Potomac at Falmouth.  There could be no doubt now of their destination: Fredericksburg, one of the boyhood homes of the nation’s first president, former teacher Saul Breckinridge shared.

“A shame to attack there,” Adam observed.  He still retained his youthful reverence for George Washington, whose birthday was so near his own.

“Doubtful they will,” replied Saul, “since it’s on the north side of the Rappahannock—our side.”

Adam arched an eyebrow.  “One presumes there will be ammunition coming from the other side, as well.”

“Probably can’t rely on the Rebels being neighborly enough not to shell us,” the corporal admitted.

Neighborly, Adam thought.  That was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it?  The North and South were neighbors, meant to live side by side in peace, part of one community.  He didn’t hate the men in gray, and they probably didn’t hate him.  Each, however, disdained the other’s way of life and was willing to fight to force his own on the opposite side.  Still, Abraham Lincoln had said it best, long before he became President: a nation couldn’t long continue, half slave and half free.  Since he believed with all his soul that all men truly were created equal, he had no choice but to support the Union, even against neighbors.

Their next orders were delayed for some time, while the soldiers stood, stamping their feet on the snow-covered ground to keep them from growing numb with the cold.  Finally, they were directed another mile up the railroad to a hillside campsite.  As the storm blew the snow more fiercely in their faces, they set up their shelter tents and built fires as best they could in the unwelcoming circumstances.  A warm meal would have lifted their spirits, but after days of marching, their supplies were almost depleted.  The storehouses at Acquia Landing were bursting with pork and hardtack, but none of it was designated for the hungry soldiers who had come so far to join the fight.  No, it was all marked for shipment to the front at Falmouth and to Falmouth it would go, no matter how many hungry mouths the supply train left in its wake.  The men of the 27^th Connecticut and the others in their brigade had to make do with a few ginger-cakes that one and all declared tasted more like sawdust than delectable pastry.

The long march was rewarded by two days of rest, their enjoyment greatly enhanced by a change in the weather.  The snow ended, the sky cleared, and the sun spread a warmth more heartening to the spirit than to the flesh, though that, too, basked beneath its rays.  The Rev. J. W. Leek, chaplain to the regiment, finally caught up with them, so for the first time the soldiers of the 27^th would have religious services on the second day of their rest.  Attendance was voluntary, but Adam decided to give the man a try and liked him on first hearing, as did most of the men.  His message was the sort of short, simple homily Adam was used to in chapel services at Yale, and after the long struggle just to get here, he found it was exactly what he needed to prepare him for whatever lay in the immediate future.  Common to Army practice, that remained yet unknown, though everyone felt that a battle was coming.  They had a good idea where now, but when remained a mystery.

Adam spent most of his Sunday writing letters, first to Elizabeth, of course, for he had neglected her before leaving on this march.  He took special effort with that long message, emphasizing his love and longing for her.  By contrast, his letter to his father was mainly filled with grousing about the weather.  He’d done too much of that, he realized, but Pa had said to spare him nothing, and so far, bad weather was the worst he’d experienced of Army life.  When he tried to find something to say to his brothers, however, he found himself at a loss for words.  After scrawling a line to Hoss about the sawdusty ginger cakes, he found he had nothing new to say, so he scrawled another line, sending his love to Little Joe and closed the letter.  He’d have to do better by the boys another time.

The soldiers packed up the next morning and headed south.  The march should have taken a single day, but they lost their way and didn’t arrive until noon of the 9^th.  Gathered before the headquarters of General Darius N. Couch, the 27^th Connecticut learned that it was to be attached to the II Corps.  “Best corps in the Army of the Potomac,” Corporal Breckinridge, who’d closely followed the war effort in the newspapers, proclaimed, and when he learned they were to be part of the First Division of General Zook’s Third Brigade, commanded by Winfield Scott Hancock, his buttons threatened to burst with pride.  “Hancock the Superb, they call him,” he reported to all those around him, “and the name fits.  We’ll do great things with him at the helm, boys!”

“Settle for stayin’ alive,” Private Buford drawled lackadaisically, but by this time no one took his offhand comments to heart.  When the time came, they were as confident of his performance as their own, though the more honest among them might have admitted to a trace of self-doubt.

Their place in the chain of command settled, the men moved to their campground, set back a short way from the Rappahannock River.  They’d barely gotten their tents set up when orders came for the cooks to prepare four days’ rations, to be ready tomorrow morning.  Was it possible, after all the monotonous preparations and false alarms of more than a month, they were finally going to see action against the Rebels?  This might be just more of the same, but everyone sensed something different in the air, so they spent the morning of December 10 in cleaning their weapons and preparing for inspection, ordered for noon.

Though he’d cleaned his Austrian rifle as assiduously as possible, Adam took no pride in handing it for inspection to a member of General Zook’s staff, who could only shake his head at the inferior weapon.  Adam longed for his reliable rifle back home, but he’d have to make do with what the Army had issued.  It was a couple of days later, just before they went into battle that another member of Zook’s staff voiced his opinion in words that raised their confidence not a whit: “Boys, if you can’t discharge ‘em, you can use the bayonet.”

As dusk fell that miserably cold evening, the Union band gathered beside the Rappahannock River, scattered with patches of ice, and launched a brave serenade.  They began with popular tunes like Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes and Auld Lang Syne and then progressed to some that reflected the Army’s purpose for being there, such as John Brown’s Body and The Battle Cry of Freedom.  The concert moved to its conclusion with true patriotic songs: Hail Colombia, The Star-Spangled Banner and Yankee Doodle.

Then from the audience listening in across the river came a cry: “Now play some of ours!”  With cheers and laughter coming from both sides of the river, the band obliged, with their best rendition of Dixie, followed by The Bonnie Blue Flag and Maryland, My Maryland.  The last song of the evening was one dear to soldiers on both sides of the conflict to be joined the next day: Home, Sweet Home.  One hundred and fifty thousand men tried to sing it through emotion-choked throats, but finally gave up and listened in silent knowledge that some of them, perhaps many of them, would never see home, sweet home again.  The music faded, and the soldiers drifted to their tents, trying to push aside their fears and the nervous energy of impending battle and get a few hours’ sleep.

Adam was no more immune to those feelings than any other man.  He lay awake long into the night, thinking of Pa and Hoss and Little Joe in faraway Nevada.  No matter how the battle ended tomorrow, it would be years before he saw them again, but that final song had stirred his yearning for home, and when he thought of them, he could almost feel the love stretching across the miles.

 

Chapter 4

Fredericksburg

 

The battle, or more correctly its prelude, began long before dawn that chilly morning.  Actually, it might rightfully have been said to begin during the band concert the night before, which had been more than mere entertainment, welcome as that was.  As the band played to two opposing armies, the 51^st New York regiment of engineers had hauled their bridge-building equipment to a sheltering line of trees close to the riverbank, ready to carry out General Burnside’s grand scheme, once the Confederates had been lulled to sleep by soothing melodies.

Burnside was the only one confident of that grand scheme.  Almost every other officer had opposed it in a meeting the night of Adam’s arrival, and Burnside had challenged them on it the next night.  “I have heard your criticisms, gentlemen, and your complaints,” he chided them.  “You know how reluctantly I assumed the responsibility of command.  I was conscious of what I lacked; but still I have been placed here where I am and will do my best.  I rely on God for wisdom and strength.  Your duty is not to throw cold water, but to aid me loyally with your advice and hearty service.”  All his subordinate officers, though maintaining their objections to the assault on Lee’s almost impregnable position, assured him that he could count on them.  Lowly foot soldiers, of course, weren’t party to that meeting, but what had been said there trickled down through the ranks and did nothing to raise their confidence in the undertaking set to begin the morning of the 11th.

The moon set at 1 a.m., and a freezing fog descended over the river and further darkened the sky.  The engineers began to construct a pontoon bridge across the Rappahannock an hour later, the first of five planned by the commanding officer.  Thanks to a series of bureaucratic snafus and bad weather, those pontoon boats had been delayed in arriving from Washington ten days or more, so Burnside’s plan to surprise the Rebels was no longer possible.  The army of General Robert E. Lee knew their intention, but Burnside, against all advice, was determined to cross anyway.

The band concert hadn’t fooled the Confederates, either.  While General Lafayette McLaws had enjoyed the music, he was suspicious that it had, for his men, a more sinister purpose, so he had stationed a brigade of stout-hearted Mississippi men in houses and outbuildings near the Fredericksburg side of the river.  They were waiting when the engineers’ hammers betrayed their presence.  For a while, the dark and the fog would shelter the pontoniers, but not for long.

About 4:30 that morning, Adam was awakened to assist in the distribution of three days’ cooked rations to the men of his company.  The temperature was below zero as he went from tent to tent to rouse the men and see that each unit was supplied.  Of course, he heard the hammering, and since General Couch’s II Corps was camped near the water front, he couldn’t resist a quick look toward the sound, but sound was all there was.  It was still too dark to see through the dense fog, so the sound of rifle fire, when it rang across the river shortly afterward, was surprising.  How could the Confederates possibly see their targets?  Then Adam realized they didn’t need to.  If they aimed with their ears, they’d probably strike something—someone.  The pain-filled cries and the splash of bodies into the ice-skimmed river almost immediately confirmed his reasoning.

As soon as the attack began, General Couch ordered some of his infantry to spread out along the riverbank and return fire.  Though not among them, Adam edged close enough to see the opposing bursts of rifle fire, half-expecting to be ordered to fill in if any man assigned there fell to enemy fire.  None did.  Those men weren’t the target; only the pontoniers were.  Halfway across the river now, they were sitting ducks, all the more so as the light of dawn made them visible.

The opposing armies began a strange sort of dance around each other.  Couch’s infantry would fire until the Rebels were forced to take cover.  Then the unarmed engineers would pour onto the bridges and hastily hammer a few more sections of the pontoons together before they, too, were forced back by the returning Rebel sharpshooters.  Nine times the gruesome waltz replayed itself before General Burnside orchestrated a crescendo by ordering the artillery atop Stafford Heights to open fire about 7 a.m.

About half an hour before that, Adam and the rest of the 27^th Connecticut had marched through the woods to a deep hollow near General Sumner’s headquarters at the Phillips House.  Here they would wait until time to cross the river.  When the bombardment began, the soldiers jumped, and thinking their time had come, many grabbed up their knapsacks.  Adam was not among them; from his vantage point, he could see that the bridges were still at least 80 feet from the opposite shore.  He could also see that the heavy artillery wasn’t having much impact where it was needed most.  He might not be an engineer, but instinct told him what the problem was: the guns simply couldn’t be lowered to the correct angle to hit the south side of the river.  Apparently, Burnside realized the problem, too, for he sent 36 guns closer to the riverside, and soon the town of Fredericksburg was under attack.

Although fog still covered everything except three towering church steeples, Adam watched in horror as flames pierced the haze at scattered locations.  To the best of his knowledge, an American city had never before been subjected to such a bombardment, and even if most of the civilians had already vacated the city, it still seemed like an assault on innocent people.  Pillars of dense smoke rose straight up for several hundred feet before spreading out in a black blanket covering the town.  A thousand feet above it all, the observation balloons of the Union Army watched and reported changing conditions back to the commander, so by midmorning Burnside knew that the downstream bridges, where there had been no sharpshooters, were complete, but he did not order any troops to cross.  His plan was for them to cross all five bridges at the same time, and he wasn’t about to let changing circumstances deter him from that plan.  Since the upper three bridges weren’t ready, the entire Army of the Potomac would have to wait.

At first, it seemed they would never cross.  Even with the covering fire from cannons pulled close to the river, the pontoniers were making slow, painful progress, a few boards nailed atop the boats at a time.  Then, about 2:30 that afternoon, Adam climbed to the top of the hill, and looking back, saw Marcus Whitmore climbing behind him.  Probably should order him back, he thought, but he didn’t.  Rank be hanged; sometimes a man just wanted the company of a man he knew and trusted, even if he was just a private.  With a yelp of excitement, Marcus pointed out a group of infantrymen, rowing across the river, and questioned their purpose.  Adam quickly discerned it and shared his opinion with his friend.  What cannon could not do, these soldiers now undertook: to clear the sharpshooters out of their hidey holes.  They moved through the streets, subject to dangers Adam could only imagine in the tight quarters of a town, and for two hours the sound of rifle fire was almost continuous.  It was brutal fighting, but inch by inch, the Federals were succeeding, and soon other attackers landed in boats and pressed through the streets.  By nightfall, Fredericksburg belonged to the Union Army, even though most of them were still on the north side of the Rappahannock.

The day finally ended, the western sky painted ruby and amethyst by the setting sun.  Smoke still hazed the horizon, for most of the town seemed to be burning.  As darkness descended, the smoke clouds glowed red whenever another shell exploded in the increasingly icy air.  Just before lights out that night, Adam noticed what looked like huge bonfires burning in the streets across the river, too large to simply provide warmth, but he couldn’t guess their purpose.  That revelation would await him on the morrow, the first of many which would mark him forever.

*****

The next day was clear and sunny, but still cold as Adam and the rest of the Army of the Potomac prepared to march into Fredericksburg.  It would take the entire day to get all of them across the pontoon bridges, for General Burnside intended to leisurely gather his forces in preparation for the battle to come.  Among the first to cross the swaying pontoons were the II Corps, including Adam’s regiment.  Rebel sharpshooters were no longer a threat, but artillery on the hills behind the town aimed for the bridges.  Though there were few direct hits, shell fragments wounded dozens of men.

The men found humor where they could.  The band of the 122^nd Pennsylvania, another nine-month regiment like the 27^th Connecticut, was playing at the foot of the pontoon bridge to encourage those crossing.  When shells began to land near them, the musicians all wisely ran for cover except one, who squatted behind the big bass drum, trusting it to shelter him from the flying fragments.  “‘Bout as much protection as a sheet of paper,” cackled Michael Buford.

Adam flicked a punishing thumb against the private’s forehead, but as he turned his back and marched on, he also chuckled at the drummer’s foolish fancy.  He wasn’t half so amused when a cannonball plunged into the Rappahannock only a few feet from his position on the bridge, hitting with such force that it showered him with cold water and stung his face with icy shards from the chunks floating in the river.

Many soldiers, fearing the judgement of God if they died carrying wicked playing cards, tossed them down as they marched over the bridges.  By the end of the day, thousands of packs cluttered the pontoons, making it hard to put a foot down without stepping on one.  As Adam reached the end of his bridge, however, a man in a black suit was handing out a different type of card.  Taking one, he read,

“Dr. H. Stillman

Embalming and Shipping

Rest in Peace at Home

$50.00”

Repulsed by the ghoulish reminder that any one of them might be dead by the end of the battle, Adam dropped the card to the deck, along with the kings, queens and jacks others had abandoned, and marched on with an irritated grimace.  Not long after some soldiers became so angry with the mortician’s tactics that they ran him off.  “Good riddance,” Adam muttered to no one in particular.

He was glad to get off the swaying bridge and begin to march southward along the street nearest the river, but the sights that greeted him were disturbing.  Every house gave witness of the previous day’s struggle: windows shattered, walls riddled with shot and shell, fire damage, not all of it from the artillery barrage or street fighting.  Worse was the evidence of what the occupying soldiers had done.  Adam’s regiment could hardly make their way down the street littered with mattresses, pitchers, kitchen utensils, chairs and other furniture.  Charred remains revealed that some of the civilians’ property had been used for firewood the night before.

They halted a short distance below the railroad and set up a makeshift camp for the day.  After a brief respite for food and drink, the 27^th Connecticut used boards salvaged from nearby fences to bridge gullies and mudholes for the passage of artillery, and when that was completed, Adam took the initiative to clear Water Street of the previous night’s detritus, to ease the entrance of the troops that kept marching into town throughout the day.  By keeping his own men busy, he hoped to abort opportunities for the sort of destruction that had prevailed the night before.

That destruction, however, was mild, compared to what transpired when the entire Army of the Potomac had Fredericksburg at its mercy.  Once the soldiers passed over the pontoon bridges, many had time on their hands, and the old proverb of the Devil finding mischief for idle hands proved all too true.  It began harmlessly enough with soldiers hunting through the refuse for some small memento to commemorate the occasion or a trinket to take home to a wife or child.  Adam could understand that; he himself had brought home such souvenirs from the Paiute war for his two brothers.  However, by early afternoon Union soldiers were again carting out anything they could carry, and brawls broke out over who had the right to some southerner’s prized property.  When the soldiers realized that the provost marshals didn’t intend to stop them and few voices were even raised in protest, they became more emboldened.

Adam saw men carrying ridiculous things from bullet-riddled homes.  He supposed they might find some use for a set of brass andirons, and frankly, he might have coveted some of the musical instruments himself, had not his strong sense of right and wrong forbidden it.  But what on earth did a rank-and-file soldier need with an apothecary’s pestle or a set of embroidered draperies?  Topping the pyramid of absurdity in Adam’s eyes was the man strolling down the street with his captured trophy, a stuffed alligator.  He would have ended it all if he’d had the authority, but he was only a sergeant major, and officers with higher rank were turning a blind eye.  Who would listen to him?  Those over whom he did have authority or influence, he stopped, but he couldn’t prevent more than a drop in the flood of mayhem.

Night fell, and with it, the temperature.  At Adam’s suggestion, several men of his company took shelter in the basement of one of the houses.  It was still cold, with nothing but a blanket between them and the dirt floor, but warmer than being outside.  Poor preparation for the battle to come, Adam thought, as he tried, futilely, to find the solace of sleep.  He thought again of that war against the Paiutes.  Though it hadn’t been winter then, the weather had been just as miserable, the anxiety just as palpable.  What they were facing tomorrow, however, was war on a larger scale, and the danger of death or dismemberment was larger, too.  Such thoughts were also poor preparation for the battle to come, though, and with determination, Adam pushed them from his mind.

As he lay in the darkness, he slowly became aware of a cacophony of sound outside the house.  Shouts mingled with raucous laughter, and loud crashes telegraphed some sort of commotion that bore investigation, though after what he’d seen throughout the day, he felt a queasy dread about what he’d find in the dark streets.  Adam rose from his place and tried to slip out unnoticed, but by the time he reached the stairs to the upper level of the house, Marcus was at his side, saying, “What do you think it is, Adam . . . I mean, Sergeant?”

“I don’t know,” Adam said.  “Go back to sleep.”

“Don’t make it an order,” Marcus said.  “I’d have to disobey it.”

Hearing the determination in his friend’s voice, Adam chose not to challenge him.  “All right,” he said.  “Stick close, then.”

“Yes, sir!”

Adam couldn’t see the salute clearly in the dim light, but he sensed it and grinned.  It was the last time he would that night.  With Marcus close behind him, he moved up the stairs and out into the street, which looked far worse now than when they’d first marched into town.  There had been some signs of destruction then, but now they were everywhere.  No longer was the pilfering a matter of collecting souvenirs.  No, this was revenge for all the times the Union soldiers had been defeated by the Army of Virginia.  This was wanton, senseless destruction to assuage the soldiers’ wounded pride and anger over the losses incurred so far in this battle that had barely begun.

Mirrors had been smashed, works of art slashed by bayonets, fine china and alabaster vases tossed from windows, along with dozens of glasses and goblets, all smashed in the street without regard for the feet that would have to march over the debris the next morning.  As Adam and Marcus moved down Water Street, they saw a rosewood piano being used as a water trough for the horses, while atop another instrument a pair of drunken corporals danced, kicking apart the keyboard with their clumsy boots.

The devastation only grew worse as they moved into streets with more houses than were found along the waterfront.  Here the atmosphere was that of a macabre carnival.  Soldiers strutted the streets in women’s dresses and even their underwear, incongruously sporting tall silk hats to complete their outfits.  Men who feared they might die on the morrow seemingly felt no restraint.  Were these the same men who had hesitated to die with a pack of playing cards in their pockets?  Or had they lost their inhibitions after imbibing the contents of Confederate wine cellars?

The final straw for Adam came when he saw leather-bound volumes being tossed into the huge bonfires.  He might not be able to stop the wholesale destruction, but he was determined to rescue a few books, at least.  Without stopping to think what he’d do with them, he began pulling volume after volume from the flames, and almost immediately Marcus joined him, taking the books from Adam and piling them a safe distance from the fire.

“Hey, Sergeant,” one of the revelers protested.  “It’s just secesh trash.  Let it burn!”

Adam held up the latest book he’d pulled from the fire.  “Secesh!” he exploded.  “Dickens?”  He pulled out another.  “Sir Walter Scott?  They aren’t secesh; they’re English, not a slaveholder among them!”

The other man threw his hands in the air with an indifferent shrug.  “Well, if you want ‘em, Sarge, by all means keep ‘em.  To each his own.”  He weaved down the street on tipsy legs.

“Adam,” Marcus said, dropping the officer’s title as he spoke friend to friend, “we can’t save them all.”

“No,” Adam sighed, tossing a half-charred book of poems back into the fire.  “Wasted effort, I suppose.”  He squared his shoulders and again took on the mantle of superior officer.  “We’ll take what we can carry back to our basement and leave them there.  They’ll probably never get back to their rightful owners, but at least someone might give them a decent home.”

“Think I might keep one or two, sir?” Marcus asked.  “Fire-singed like they are, the Rebs’ll probably throw them out, anyway.”

Adam nodded in slow acknowledgement.  “I won’t object, but don’t carry them into battle, corporal.  No extra weight tomorrow.”  As they walked back to their basement shelter, he decided he, too, would set aside a couple of books to take back across the river, if he had the chance to pick them up later.  Even if not, they might help him while away the hours until morning.

He woke to the sound of artillery shells.  The Rebs are starting early, he thought as he stood and gingerly bent this way and that in a vain attempt to work out all the kinks his unorthodox sleeping position had driven into his body.  He’d settled in the doorway, so that he could read by the light of nearby bonfires and when they’d been doused, the fainter light of the half-moon.  Sometime in the wee hours of the night, he’d fallen asleep, still in the doorway.  He might have been slightly warmer inside the basement, he admitted sheepishly, but not much, since the order against even small campfires had come down, ensuring that everyone slept cold that night.  How that order correlated with the bonfires tolerated so readily the previous night, he would never understand.

He made his way downstairs and roused those men who had managed to sleep through the bursting shells.  Typically, Private Bufford was one of them.

“Can’t we light a little fire, Sarge?” Bufford whined.  “Just for coffee?  The Rebs won’t see the smoke from in here.”

“You have your orders, Private,” Adam said firmly.  He suspected Bufford might be right, but orders were orders.  He’d been known to turn a blind eye to minor infractions, in favor of building morale, but leniency could go only so far, especially when complaints could be more contagious than measles in the ranks.

“Yes, sir,” Bufford said, but muttered below his breath, “Don’t see how they expect us to do much fightin’ on hardtack and water.”

“That’s enough bellyaching, Private,” Adam said, his voice sterner.  He wasn’t any more pleased with the prospects for breakfast than the habitual grouser.  It was a miserable way to start any day, much less one as demanding as this was likely to be.

They had no sooner finished their meager breakfast than Zook ordered his brigade to form on Water Street.  Then, pursuant to General Hancock’s order, they marched up a rocky lane to Caroline Street, the main road through town.  There, parallel to the river, they formed in line of battle, the 53^rd Pennsylvania beside the tracks of the Richmond, Fredericksburg & Potomac Railroad and the 27^th Connecticut next to them, with other regiments in the street beyond.  Around 11 a.m., the 2^nd Delaware and 52^nd New York returned from picket duty to fill up the brigade, but still they only stood, nervously waiting for orders to move forward.

“Hear you fresh fish flopped belly down in the mud yesterday,” a soldier from Pennsylvania taunted the men of the 27^th, and Adam heard for the first time that those detailed to lay a bridge south of town for Franklin’s men had spent the day cowering in a ditch after enemy fire took out a dozen or so.  It wasn’t the whole regiment, but they all felt the sting of shame and purposed no such thing would be said of them at the end of this day.  When it appeared they wouldn’t be needed for a while, Zook ordered the whole brigade to stack arms and dismissed them with orders to stay close.  Many of the men dashed into nearby houses, seeing it as an opportunity for more looting.  Adam clamped a hand on Private Bufford’s shoulder.  “Forget it,” he said.  “Nothing left worth having, anyway.”

“Safer from enemy fire, Sarge,” Bufford argued.  So far, there was no enemy fire, but Adam waved him on as if the excuse were valid.  He himself drew closer to a building, prepared to duck inside if he heard the sound of incoming artillery, but determined not to participate in the looting.  That, to him, was as shameful as cowering in fear under actual fire, the accusation against his regiment still rankling him.  Staff officers raced past, first one way and then the other, either transporting orders or moving other forces into position, while one by one the soldiers finished their looting and made their way back to the street.

As he waited, Adam got his first close look at the man commanding his division.  General Winfield Scott Hancock rode past several times, immaculately dressed, as was said to be his habit.  He was as handsome and well-built as reported, too, but what struck Adam was his calm, quietly assured demeanor.  It instilled the same confidence in the men who would follow him into battle, and as he rode up and down the street, Adam could almost feel confidence rising in those around him, as well as in his own soul.

The sound of cannon fire about mid-morning told them that General Franklin had initiated his belated attack below Fredericksburg.  Intended to divert Southern troops away from the ridge behind the town, it at first had no impact on the lines nervously waiting in Caroline Street.  Then, gradually, shells began to fall on the houses and land in the street directly in front of them, while from back across the Rappahannock came answering cries from the II Corps’ artillery.  Being required to stand in place, with no way to escape any cannonball that chose to careen down on them, from whichever direction, reminded Adam sharply of the bowling lanes back in the gymnasium at Yale—with him and his fellow soldiers lined up as pins.  Like pins, there was nothing they could do to avoid what was being sent their way.  Surely, actual fighting could be no more terrifying than this!

Concerned by the incoming barrage against his unprotected troops, Hancock decided to spread them out.  With Zook’s Brigade, Adam marched up to Princess Anne Street, still near the railroad, while Meagher’s Irish Brigade and Caldwell’s Brigade moved to other locations.  Drawing fire at every cross street, they raced across the intersections as briskly as any thoroughbred.  From his new position Adam was better able to see the battlefield, where General French’s division was now facing the gauntlet he himself was soon to enter.  Beyond the streets of town lay largely open fields that sloped gradually up to the telegraph road, bordered by a stone wall on either side.  Beyond that, the ground rose abruptly to Marye’s Heights, about 150 feet high.

There was little shelter for French’s men as they moved toward that eminence.  The few houses dotting the landscape, with the gardens and fences surrounding them, only slowed the soldiers’ progress, and there were other obstacles blocking their progress, too.  About 200 yards from the edge of town, a canal and a connecting millrace flowed through the fields, spanned by three narrow bridges.  They weren’t all intact, but even those that were offered no easy crossing, since the soldiers had to line up in columns to march across, and that made them perfect targets for the cannonballs raining down from the Heights.  It was enough to confirm again for Adam that his experience with the Paiutes hadn’t given him a clue to what real war was like.  Suddenly, he felt as untried as the rawest recruit, with his most challenging moment upon him.

“Attention!”  The call echoed down the line on Princess Anne about an hour after the battle had begun.  Every man took up his rifle and placed it on his shoulder as he prepared to follow the regimental flag, held aloft by Adam’s old friend, James Brand.  “Right face!  Right shoulder—shift arms!”  Just then General Hancock himself rode up to the edgy new soldiers of the 27^th Connecticut.  Right arm raised, he leaned forward in the saddle.  “You are the only Connecticut regiment in my division,” he declared, loudly enough for all to hear.  “Bring no dishonor on the state you represent.”

Was Hancock inferring that the regiment had brought dishonor on their state through their alleged cowardice the day before?  Perhaps it had given the general added concern, Adam conceded, and while he hadn’t been guilty himself, he felt a responsibility to see that no man under his command would fail today. He didn’t really consider Connecticut his home state, of course, but he realized he might well be the only Nevadan in the entire Army of the Potomac, so he determined to bring no dishonor on his own territory, much less to the Ponderosa and his family, which, to him, meant more.  Hancock’s words of encouragement were met with a shout of affirmation or, perhaps, self-defending valor from the disparaged companies of the 27^th, and the commander rode on, the order to march forward was given, and in quick time the soldiers moved down the street to the railroad.

They had no sooner arrived than they felt the force of Rebel guns trained on that strategic spot, and there fell the first casualty from their unit, a captain from another company.  Several men near Adam were knocked down by the cannon blast, and one jumped up, crying, “I’ll have pay for that!”  He ran forward, rifle at the ready, never to be seen again this side of heaven.

“Maintain your ranks!” Adam yelled at those nearest him, aiming the order especially at Michael Bufford, who looked ready to follow the foolhardy example set before him.

The order to fix bayonets rang down the line, quickly followed by “Charge!”  Then the men of Samuel Zook’s brigade rushed forward, some exhilarated by their first taste of battle.  Others, almost paralyzed with fear, were swept along with the exuberant.  Adam scarcely had time to examine which camp he fell into.  His first impression, as he ran across the field of battle, was that it resembled the Roman colosseums he’d read about in his Latin studies, and a morbid quotation raced through his mind: “Hail, Caesar, we who are about to die salute you.”  Then an image closer to home quickly followed.  We’re marching through a gigantic shooting gallery, he thought.  Which of us can hope to escape?”

Many did not.  One man, struck in the back, was cut in two, and his entrails flew out in all directions.  At almost the same moment, another shell exploded, filling the air with pieces of flesh and clothing.  Adam was stuck in the arm by a shard of someone’s skull, and as bile surged up his throat, he felt blessed that he’d only had hardtack and water that morning.  Soldiers crumpled to the ground on all sides, as Zook’s Brigade pressed on.

They pushed rapidly toward the millrace behind the town and onto the bridges, “onto” being almost a facetious word.  To get the whole force across quickly, they were forced to use even the ones that weren’t intact.  Some soldiers gingerly balanced down the stringers on either side of the plankless structures; others chose to ford the canal itself and plunged into icy, waist-deep water.  With his instinct for engineering, Adam saw a third option and directed the men nearest him to scour the fences that had been knocked over by French’s troops and use those boards as makeshift planks on one bridge.  Like all the others, they were under constant fire; some were hit and fell, screaming into the frigid water.   Balancing along the stringers to direct the placement of boards, Adam almost met their fate, when he suddenly slipped and one foot fell into the water.  He grasped a hand stretched out to him and gratefully looked up into the face of Saul Breckinridge.  “Get on across,” he ordered as soon as he was stable.  Corporal Breckinridge hesitated, plainly reluctant to leave his sergeant-major, but with a crisp nod accepted the order and crossed over.  Adam stayed behind to direct the placement of the boards, and once they were in place, hurried the soldiers, some of whom were from other companies, across the bridges . . . into an even deadlier killing field.

Once past the millrace, the soldiers scrambled over a high board fence and aimed for the only shelter in sight, an isolated two-story brick house.  Many never made it.  They were left where they fell, everyone being under such a hail of gunfire that it was impossible to attend them.  The house provided blessed relief from the hailstorm, but not for long.  The boys in blue couldn’t inflict much damage from there, so they split, some going to the right and others to the left of the house, and pressed on, past the garden plot and the bare-limbed trees, toward the fence around the backyard.  Somewhere in that process Zook’s brigade lost all organization.  Units became intermingled and the chain of command disintegrated.  Unsure who was in charge, each man either obeyed the officer nearest him or simply followed his own counsel.  In the end it didn’t much matter which.

Adam ran to the right of the house, crossed the yard quickly and rested briefly behind the meager protection of the bullet-ridden orchard fence.  Less than a hundred yards in front of him, behind the shelter of a four-foot stone wall, was the enemy, pouring fire so rapidly and so persistently that he could barely see the man to the right and left of him for the smoke. He had no plain line of sight to the Confederates, either.  When he did catch a glimpse of the enemy, he could barely see their heads above that stone wall.  The ground behind it must be lower, a sunken road making them almost invulnerable to Union fire, he realized.  But he poked his rifle through the fence and fired anyway, in hopes of somehow hitting something, somehow making a difference.

Realizing he wasn’t, he broke down the fence and, with a few others, ran forward another twenty-five yards.  He dropped behind a slight swell in the land that offered even scanter shelter than the fence, but it was all there was.  Other bodies were already in that swale, some no longer living, and still more fell in beside him.  He couldn’t take time to see whether it was anyone he knew or not.  All he could do was fire, duck into the swale to reload and rise over the edge to fire again.  Dark gun smoke rolled over fields strewn with the remains of last summer’s wheat and corn harvests and, increasingly, with the remains of the Army of the Potomac.

Scarcely able to hear anything above the discharge of thousands of rifles and not trusting his own inferior weapon, Adam finally stopped firing altogether.  Better to save what ammunition he had left for the last extremity, he thought.  He never doubted that there would be a last extremity, surrounded as he was by the dead, the dying and the desperate, the state of every man who could still breathe.  As an hour passed, there were less and less of the third category and more of the other two.  He tried to render aid to those who fell near him, but there was little he could do.  The assault by Zook’s brigade was finished, even if there was no way to get off that field.

Then Adam saw the distinctive emerald flag, embroidered in gold with an Irish harp, a shamrock and a sunburst and realized Brigadier General Thomas Meagher’s Irish brigade had entered the battle.  For some reason there was only one such flag, when each regiment should have carried one, but every man in the brigade proudly declared his heritage with a sprig of green boxwood displayed on his cap.  Some men in the swale, not wanting to see more futile slaughter, raised arms and voices to stop them, but the Irish charged forward, shouting, “Erin Go Braugh!”

In their determination, they came closer to the stone wall than any regiment before them, even threatening to climb over it into the sunken road behind, which had offered the Rebel army such strong protection.  Hoping they might succeed where all others had failed, Adam readied himself to enter the fray, but he had barely started to climb over the bodies around him when he saw the Irish brigade falling back to join those, living and dead, already in the swale.  Some companies, close to one hundred strong when the battle started, had no more than eight or nine men left.

Adam couldn’t believe his eyes when the regiments under command of Brigadier General John Caldwell marched into the same trap.  Had Burnside lost his mind?  The brigades that had gone before them were all but decimated, and he was still set on the same strategy?  It was madness!  Sheer, hopeless madness!  If even an untrained college boy could see that, why not the commander of the Army of the Potomac?  The Confederates held the high ground to begin with.  Marching up to attack them was like climbing out of a bowl and then sliding down its smooth sides when they couldn’t reach the top.  As if that weren’t advantage enough, the stone wall and the sunken road behind it made the position almost invulnerable.  The challenge was impossible from the get-go.

None of that had Adam known when he’d lined up back in the streets of Fredericksburg, but it would have made no difference.  He was a man under orders.  Even had he not been, he couldn’t have deserted the men of his company, much less those he called friends, while they were under that kind of withering fire.  It was beginning to look, though, as if doing “no dishonor” in this one-sided battle would mean dying here, alongside thousands of others, including the fresh fodder for the maw of war that was now marching up that body-strewn hill.  “We who are about to die salute you,” indeed!

For a brief moment it appeared Caldwell’s troops might succeed.  Their specially designed long-range rifles, so much superior to Adam’s Austrian weapon, enabled them to hit a few men behind that stone wall.  Soon, however, like the Irish Brigade before them, like Zook’s before them and French’s before that, Caldwell’s men also dropped, one by one, until their piled bodies formed a band 200 yards deep.  Caldwell himself, wounded, was carried off the field of battle, but his men lay where they fell.  Loyalty might make men risk almost certain death for their commanding officer, but loyalty couldn’t make anyone take the same risk for some unknown private . . . or even a sergeant-major, Adam told himself grimly.  Along with every other soldier in the Army of the Potomac, he was on his own.

Late in the afternoon, Burnside apparently ordered the field artillery into the open field, for Adam saw six cannons being drawn over those battered bridges across the canal.  Once across, they were galloped forward, coming within 200 yards of that infernal stone wall, but like all the other efforts, it was hopeless from the start.  Rebel sharpshooters and artillerists quickly found their range and ended the short-lived attack.   The entire Union line lay prostrate, not a man of them still standing.

As darkness fell, most of the firing ceased.  Sixty-three hundred dead and wounded covered the ground slick with their blood.  Ambulances were sent out, but when fired upon, they retired and left the wounded to the mercy of the elements.  Thousands of the living lay on their stomachs in ground that had thawed to mud as the day warmed and quickly hardened again as the sun descended.  They couldn’t risk lighting fires, for even a struck match sent a hail of bullets their way.  All they could do was lie there and shiver as the night grew colder, shiver and cry out for water, their mothers, the release of death.  Feeble as they were, those cries were so many they could surely be heard back across the Rappahannock—perhaps, Adam hoped bitterly, by the ears of General Ambrose Burnside himself.

Adam had never felt more miserable or more hopeless.  He’d not eaten since that meager cold breakfast and had scarcely taken a sip of water since morning, either, which was a back-handed blessing, considering he’d had no opportunity to relieve himself.  As the temperature plummeted, he drew away from the bodies around him, now growing stiff and icy.  Having been ordered to leave his backpack and overcoat in town, however, and realizing his need for greater warmth, he made the decision to strip the frock coats off the dead around him.  “Sorry,” he muttered to the first stiffening corpse he robbed.  Although he knew he was doing that man no further harm, it still felt wrong to rob a man of his final dignity.  All around him, men were doing the same, out of their sheer need for survival.  Before the night was over, they would do worse.

Huddled under two coats, in addition to his own, Adam heard a faint voice calling his own name.  There had to be other Adams lying on that frozen field, but he took the chance that he might be the one meant and softly called back his full name.  “Marcus,” came the answer, and Adam’s heart leaped at the realization that his friend had survived, at least so far.

The two continued to send soft whispers back and forth until, finally, Adam saw a man crawling along the line of men below him.  “Up here,” he called.  “Keep your head down.”  Then he watched as Marcus clambered over dead bodies and past the living men who made way for him until, finally, he fell into Adam’s arms.  “You’re crazy, you know that?” Adam chided.

“Yes, sir,” Marcus gasped breathlessly, as he raised a salute sloppy enough to be worthy of Michael Bufford at his worst.

“Forget that for now,” Adam said with a slight chuckle, all he dared risk in the current situation.  He shed one of his extra coats and wrapped it around his slighter friend.

“Thanks,” Marcus, shivering, said breathlessly.  “What do you think we should do, Sergeant?”

The sound of incoming rifle fire, in response to some fool who’d raised his head too high, provided the answer.  “Stay here for now,” Adam said.  Retreat was the only thing that made sense, but they had no such order.  How could they, though, when the whole regiment was fragmented and no superior officer was in sight?

Huddled next to Marcus, he shuddered to see a further desecration of the dead as men rolled the stiffening bodies up the slight incline to use as a barrier.   He felt his own position safe enough that he didn’t do it, but all through the night, he heard the eerie thud of bullets entering frozen flesh, as the dead continued to faithfully serve the living.  Exhausted, he finally fell asleep while the silent forms around him hardened in grotesque positions.

*****

As dawn tinted the eastern horizon, the sky was clear and the air quiet, almost peaceful.  The underlying tension, however, made it the most morbid Sabbath to which Adam had ever awakened.  Surrounded by lifeless bodies and a silence broken only by the feeble cries of the wounded still lying on that accursed hillside, he wondered if it were all over, whether General Burnside had finally realized the futility of sending regiment after regiment against an enemy so entrenched that they could hardly be hurt, much less defeated.

He hadn’t.  At that same moment, the commander of the Army of the Potomac was ordering the IX Corps to prepare to attack.  Every other officer inside the command headquarters all but exploded.  Even loyal old Bull Sumner raised strong objection, and coming as close as they dared without outright rebellion, everyone else argued against renewing the attack.  Finally, Burnside gave in.  The official, sanitized version would say merely that his staff and associates had talked him out of the proposal, but it was far more contentious than that.  Sumner, Couch, Hancock—all the leaders over Adam—had sacrificed enough men to a strategy that anyone should have seen from the outset was unwinnable.  They would sanction no more.

None of the men on that hillside, however, knew the decisions being made.  As the sun rose and the ground beneath them thawed to a slushy mixture of mud and blood, they could only lie there in misery, waiting for orders that never came: cold, hungry, tormented by the cries of the wounded, but unable to help them without becoming one of their number.  As the Confederate Army rose to life above them, aromas from the enemy’s cookfires subjected the starving boys in blue to new and exquisite torture, but the occasional warning shots were enough to keep them all flat on their growling bellies throughout an increasingly long morning.

Inexplicably, one Rebel soldier left his shelter behind the stone wall and moved onto the field full of dead and wounded Yankees.  Excited to have, at last, a target they could hit, several Yanks rose far enough out of the sheltering swale to shoot, but none hit the thin young soldier.  Adam was instantly thankful that his own shot had missed when he saw that the man had looped a number of canteens around his neck, one of which he was offering to a suffering soldier clad in Union blue.  “Stop shooting!” Adam yelled at his fellow soldiers.  “Can’t you see he’s trying to help?”  Cheers rang out up and down the Union line, and over the next two hours, the Confederate soldier moved across that bloody field, ministering comfort to his fallen enemies.

The moans of the wounded, their suffering assuaged by the brave Rebel, died down, and the slope below Marye’s Heights fell again into eerie Sabbath silence as the afternoon advanced.  Adam expected at any moment for the attack to be renewed, and he had no idea what part he was expected to play in it.  Why were there no orders?  Or, maybe there were, and his company was too widely separated for them to reach him.  Still, no one else was moving, either.  The entire Army of the Potomac seemed to be pinned down, unable to move forward or retreat; to do either could mean instant death.

Adam happened to be looking toward town when a rider emerged, bearing a white flag.  Grabbing Marcus’ arm, he said, “Look.  I think it’s a flag of truce.  Maybe we’re going to get out of here, after all.”

“Oh, please, God,” Marcus croaked through a throat so dry it could do nothing else.

The rider approached the Confederate line, and though it was a risk, Adam peeked over the top of the swale.  No one fired at him, but he couldn’t see enough to keep risking it, so he slid back down and merely shrugged at his friend’s questioning face.  Eventually, the soldier who had carried the white flag rode back and moved down the line of men lying below the swale.  “We’ve been given permission to bury the dead and evacuate the wounded,” he said over and over.  “We only have two hours’ truce, men, so work as fast as you can.”

“What about us?” Some man a few yards from Adam demanded.

“No orders yet,” the soldier answered.  “Just do what you can, soldier.”

That was order enough for Adam.  “You up to it?” he asked Marcus.

The smaller man nodded.  “Especially if I can find someone with a full canteen,” he whispered as if fearful someone else might snatch the idea from him and reach that precious water first.

Tentatively, still fearful of flying bullets, the blue-coated soldiers stood and moved up the hill, while the Confederates walked down.  At first, Adam thought they intended to help, like the man who had attended the wounded earlier.  Then he realized these men were scavenging from the black and bloated bodies of the dead, stripping from them every piece of useful clothing.  At first, the callousness angered him, until he saw the condition of the Southern soldiers.  Some of their uniforms were in tatters, and a good number squished barefoot through the icy slush of that hillside.  Feeling that no man, however mistaken in the side he had chosen in this fight, should face winter with no more than that to shield him from the elements, Adam couldn’t begrudge them what the dead no longer needed.

“Adam!”  Marcus ran excitedly up to him and, holding up a canteen, sloshed it just enough so he could hear there was something in it.

Adam grinned and reached for it.  Then, seeing the private’s chapped lips, said, “You first.”

“No, sir,” Marcus insisted.

“Follow orders, private,” Adam said with mock sternness, and though Marcus knew it wasn’t really an order, he relented and took a swig before passing the canteen over to his sergeant-major.

The water was stale, but to Adam, it was the elixir of the gods.  He capped the canteen and hung it over his shoulder.  “See to the wounded first.  Then, we’ll bury as many dead as we have time for.”

Marcus saluted.  “Yes, sir!”

Having no stretchers, they first assisted the walking wounded back toward Fredericksburg.  They never reached town themselves; instead, they helped the men into wagons and ambulances located to the rear of the field of battle and returned to rescue others.  Unlike some men, who used the time of truce to trade newspapers and tobacco with the enemy, Adam and Marcus stayed intent on helping as many wounded soldiers as possible in the scant two hours afforded them.

As they were helping another couple of men into a small cart, a voice called, “Sergeant Cartwright!”

Looking over his shoulder, Adam smiled into a familiar face.  “Corporal Breckinridge.  Good to see you weathered the storm.”  Then he noticed the torn, blood-dabbled sleeve.  “Saul!” he cried.  “You’re hit.”

“Naught but a graze, sir,” Breckinridge said.

“There’s room in this cart, Saul,” Marcus said.  “Climb in and they’ll get you back to help.”

“No,” the corporal insisted.  “There’s men still on that hillside, and I’m fit enough to help them.”

“We’ll get them,” Adam said.

“You know time’s almost up, sir,” Breckinridge argued.  “We’ve got to save as many as we can.”

“And if I make it an order?”

The corporal grinned.  “What’s that?  Noise of battle must have affected my hearing, sir, for I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”

“Keep close to us, at least,” Adam ordered, adding wryly, “since you won’t be able to hear the order to retreat.”

Breckinridge cupped a hand behind his ear.  “Clothes, you say?  Aye, I’ll keep my clothes, sir, no matter how many naked Rebels try to tear them off me.”

Shaking his head, Adam watched him move up the hill and turned toward Marcus.  “I’m beginning to think he’s spent too much time around Private Buford.”

“He does rub off,” Marcus said with a grin.

Adam squinted at the descending sun.  He couldn’t tell precisely how much time remained, but Saul was right: it couldn’t be long.  “Come on,” he said.  “We’ll try one more trip.”

They made that trip, and since they’d still had no order to leave, started back up the hill.  They met Saul on his way back, struggling to help a man with a gaping leg wound.  “Help him, Private,” Adam ordered Marcus.  “I’ll”—but just then the bugle sounded to retreat, and he changed the order.  “Get him to safety, and stay there!” he ordered in his best imitation of his father’s no-argument voice.  “I’ll cover you.”  He threw himself to the ground and awaited the inevitable resurgence of rifle fire.

It wasn’t long in coming.  Bullets began to sail over his head, and some hit the dirt to the left and right of him.  He wasn’t the target, though; the men fleeing past him were, so he rose up to fire and then crouched down, lying as flat as he could, while bullets again rained down.  He would never know why one didn’t hit him.  Maybe Jamie’s praying hard, he thought as he reloaded and prepared to make himself a target once more.  Keep it up, chum.

Eventually, he ran out of ammunition, so he hugged the ground and prayed the hail of bullets would end.  It did, finally, but he knew it would start again the minute he raised his head.  Play dead, he told himself and hoped he could lie still enough to pull it off.  After perhaps an hour, he thought the encroaching dusk might give him a chance to slip away.  Slowly, he slid backwards on his belly, and when no bullets flew his way, he decided to chance it.  Standing quickly, he sprinted toward the canal.  Immediately he heard the ping and plunk of bullets landing near him, but he ran on, trusting to luck or, perhaps, the prayers of his saintly former and, hopefully, someday-again roommate.

Having no time to reach the makeshift plank bridge or sidestep along the stringers, he plunged into the canal.  The ice crunched beneath his boots, and he waded through hip-high water, as bullets splashed the surface and threw spray into his face.  Still, his luck held.  He reached the other side and clambered out; then he raced toward the brick house that had given him cover earlier in the day.  He stayed there awhile, panting for air.  Then, eager to get back to town and his men, he darted from house to isolated house until they finally began to congregate together and form the town.

Once back on the streets of Fredericksburg, now thronging with soldiers, he slowed to a walk, as thankful as he’d ever been in his life just to be alive.  As he made his way through the streets, he saw a red flag waving from almost every house.  Could they all be hospitals, as that indicated?  In his mind’s eye, he could still see that hillside littered with the dead and the dying and knew it was so.  Could there be enough doctors in all the Union Army, he wondered, to treat the men who had fallen in this senseless battle?

His mind flashed to his friend from back home, Mark Wentworth.  He was somewhere here, serving as a surgeon’s aide in the regular army.  There hadn’t even been time to locate him between the time he’d linked up with the Army of the Potomac and this first battle.  Now, he felt desperate to know if Mark had made it through, and he had no idea even who to ask.  He consoled himself that, while no place on a battlefield was safe, medics weren’t typically targets.

He reached Water Street, but didn’t make it to the basement where his unit had stayed night before last.  Collapsing, he was handed a blanket by some kind soul, and despite the noise around him, dropped into exhausted sleep.  He didn’t sleep long, but soon woke to a display of rare, undulating light in shades of red, blue, green and gold, splashed across the heavens.  Aurora borealis, he remembered.  He’d seen the phenomenon for the first time last summer in New York City when he’d sat in the backyard of his boarding house into the wee hours, basking in the beauty, sensing a serenity that transcended his weariness.  Here, however, his eyes riveted in gruesome awe on the red tones and there was no serenity.  It reminded him, instead, of the flames of hell, where he’d lived the last two days, and he wanted only to douse them, lest it be an omen of more bloodshed to come.

The eerie lights faded to dark sky after about thirty minutes, and Adam decided to make his way back to the basement.  He hoped, at least, to find Marcus and Saul there, though he wasn’t sure how many others in the regiment might have survived the slaughterhouse of Marye’s Heights.  As he walked southward, he noticed the same sort of macabre carnival that had preceded the battle, the same destruction of private property as men shouted and danced in the streets.  Still drained himself, he wondered how anyone had the strength, much less the inclination; then he realized the atmosphere was different, the need for retaliation stronger and any celebrative air a pale reflection of the joy of still being alive.

As he walked down the stairs into the basement, he wondered if the books he’d scavenged from the fire would still be there, or if some fool had fed even those to the flames.  He’d welcome the companionship of a good book tonight, though he was probably too tired to read it.  He forgot all about books, though, when he entered the room and found it filled with men who had survived the storm.

“Adam!”  There was no missing the exuberance of that cry or the fierceness of the embrace that enfolded him.  “I thought you hadn’t made it,” Marcus sobbed, leaning into his friend’s chest.  Then he pulled back, looking sheepish.  “Sorry, Sergeant,” he said.  “I forgot myself.”

Adam uttered a broken chuckle.  “Morning is soon enough to bother about rank, Marc.  Tonight, we’re just friends.”  Frankly, he thought wryly, anyone who survived this debacle would forever feel like a friend, since they had shared something more meaningful than he ever had with closer ones back home like Billy and Ross.  Saul Breckinridge came across the clammy room to shake his hand, and looking from one to the other with a heart full of gratitude, Adam asked, “Do you know anything about our other men?”

The corporal shook his head.  “No clear tally yet, Sergeant.  Twenty or so gone from our company alone, from what I’ve heard.”

“Dear God,” Adam murmured.  A fifth of their number, with more to come, perhaps.  If that ratio held, there would be more than a hundred missing in the next regimental roll call.  Perhaps, some he knew intimately.  What had become of Antonio Dardelle, his Chinese friend and . . . ?

“Buford made it.”  Marcus grinned.  “He would, of course.  That one always lands on his feet.”

“And probably has the nine lives of a cat, too,” Adam said, returning the grin.  “I’m glad to hear it.”

Marcus sobered.  “I heard one bit of bad news, though.  Frank Alling didn’t survive.  You remember him?”

“Yes,” Adam said, sobering instantly.  He’d known Alling well, since he was not only a member of his own class at Yale, but of his section, those he sat closest to in every class because of their alphabetical seating.  He’d known loss before, of course: his mother, Inger, Marie.  This, though, was someone his own age, in the very bloom of life, and somehow it felt different, more personal, more . . . wrong.  Even the thought seemed traitorous, and he thrust it aside.  “Anyone else we know?”

“Yes,” Breckinridge put in.  “The lieutenant’s gone, Sergeant.”

“Worthington?” Adam gasped.  He’d been so proud to serve under that man.

“No, sir.  Sorry.  It’s McCarthy, the 2^nd lieutenant, who passed.”

Adam pursed his lips and acknowledged the correction with a nod.  He’d been a good man, too, and it didn’t hurt any less.  He dreaded asking, but he did, anyway.  “Is that all . . . all you know, I mean?”

“Jim was wounded—shoulder wound,” Marcus said, “but he’ll be okay.”

Adam’s head bowed.  James Brand—there was no better man than the one who had inspired him to enlist, and as color bearer, he would, of course, have been a prime target for the Confederates.  Adam had lost sight of the regimental flag in the smoke and confusion of the battle, but he hadn’t had time to think what that might mean for his friend.  But he was all right, Marcus had said.  Taking heart, he asked, “Do you know where he is?”

“Not the exact building,” Marcus admitted, “but I can tell you the direction they were taking him, if you want to . . .”

Adam gave a weary chuckle.  “I will . . . later.  Unless we have orders to the contrary, I’m going to get a little rest first.”  As busy as the surgeons were, he doubted they’d welcome a lone soldier, searching for his chum right now.

“You definitely should, sir,” Corporal Breckinridge said firmly.  “Who knows when we may be recalled to the field?”

Dear God, thought Adam, let it not be so!  If there was anything the Army of the Potomac did not need, it was orders to assault that shot-blasted hill one more useless time!  But so far, their commander had seemed determined, against all odds, to take it, and Adam didn’t trust Burnside to have faced facts yet.  Sleep came slowly.  With all he’d endured and concerns for what lay ahead, Adam couldn’t settle.  Outside he could hear the rumblings of thunder and the patter of falling rain, growing heavier as the night proceeded, but the sounds soothed him, as well.  It was what Pa had always called good sleeping weather, and with thoughts of home, he finally let it lull him into slumber.

He woke to an air of heaviness, but he had no time to examine whether it arose from weariness or the dampening dejection which wafted from every heart in that basement.  Whatever caused it, he had to get the men up and moving, ready for whatever whim the chain of command dictated.  It was an unworthy thought and he knew it.  Most of those over him were good men: his own captain, certainly, as well as the regiment’s colonel, Richard Bostwick, and he felt nothing but respect for their division leader, General Hancock.  He had nothing, even, against the corps leader, General Couch, although he’d had almost no contact with him.  No, the fiasco of Fredericksburg, as far as Adam was concerned, lay at the feet of one man, General Ambrose Burnside, who probably was a good man, too, but had made some terrible and costly decisions.  Rumor was that he’d turned down the offer of command twice, feeling himself incapable of that much responsibility.  Well, he was right about that, but how many times could you say no to the President of the United States?  Adam wasn’t ready to lay this defeat on the shoulders of Abraham Lincoln, though; he revered the man many called Father Abraham.

He shook himself.  He had no time for this kind of introspective nonsense, either.  Finding Michael Buford, he shook him awake and, since he had no orders to the contrary, told the private to make a small fire and brew some coffee.  The men deserved that much consideration on this cold, clammy morning.  After they had warmed up a little, he ordered them to clean their guns, so they’d be ready for whatever happened next.  He had his father’s early training to thank for that instinct, although Pa had usually insisted the job be done at the end of the day, not the busy beginning.  The men had been exhausted last night, however, and Adam thought, with a fond smile, that even Pa would have advised him to wait.

Once his own rifle was ready for duty, Adam prudently sought out Lieutenant Worthington and inquired as to any orders.  “None yet,” Worthington said, “although there’s some discussion that we may make another attempt to take the heights, so make sure the men are ready, if called upon.”

From the way he frowned, Adam knew Worthington had no more taste for that than he did, but he relayed the instructions he’d already given about preparing the weapons.

The frown faded to a small smile.  “Good man.”

Then, hesitantly, Adam said, “I had hoped, sir, to seek out a friend among the wounded . . . if there’s time.”

“One of our men?” Worthington asked.

“Our regiment,” Adam said, “but in Company I, sir.”

Worthington again frowned momentarily, though more in thought than displeasure.  Then, seeing the earnestness in Adam’s face, the frown softened again.  “Well, since you’ve put things well in order in our own company, Sergeant-Major, permission is granted.”  He hesitated, as if reluctant to speak the thought in his mind.  “You—uh—are certain your friend is among the wounded?”  The weight of those beyond wounded lay heavy on his brow.

“Oh, yes, sir,” Adam said.  “A shoulder wound, I was told.  Our color bearer, sir.”

The captain’s face cleared with relief.  “You mean Brand.  He’s still with us, God be thanked.  We can’t afford to lose brave men like him.  I can even direct you to the house where he is.”

“Oh, thank you, sir.  That will save time.”

Worthington sobered again.  “Yes.  Don’t spend too much time there, Sergeant-Major.  We still don’t know what’s happening today, so keep your ears open as you go.  A hospital is the least likely place to hear orders to attack.”

Assuring his commander that he’d be brief, Adam saluted and hurried out, making his way along Water Street to the location described to him.  After some inquiry and searching, he found James Brand in what had been a small study lined with bookshelves.  “Well, this is an appropriate setting for a student, I must say,” he called cheerily.

Brand turned at his voice and met him with a broad smile.  “Adam!” he cried.  “I’m so glad . . . and thankful . . . to see you.”

Adam warmly clasped his friend’s hand on the uninjured side.  “And I, you,” he said fervently.  Like Brand, he was thinking of how many others would never be seen again by friends or family and so thankful that this one was spared to him.  “How badly hurt are you, Jim?”

Jim frowned.  “Bad enough that they’re shipping me back across the river.”

“Well, I would hope so!” Adam declared.  “Someone else can carry the flag today; you’ve done your part.”

“As best I could,” Brand said with a sad smile.  “We all did, but we didn’t accomplish much, did we, Adam?”

Adam couldn’t deny it.  “Not for lack of trying . . . and we may not be through yet.  I can’t stay long, Jim, because we may be ordered back to the field.”  Out of consideration for his friend, he didn’t express his real feelings about attacking that hill one more time.

He didn’t need to, for the press of Jim’s hand told him he understood.  “I’ll pray for you,” he vowed soberly.

Valuing Jim’s prayers as much as those of his preacher-to-be former roommate, Adam nodded and returned the hand press.  “Anything I can do for you before I leave?” he asked.

Jim cast an almost covetous eye toward the shelves lined with books, which had somehow survived the rampage of the Union Army.  “Do you suppose the owner would mind if I borrowed a volume . . . just until we leave?”

His own heart now burning with vengeful thoughts as much as any of the men who had pillaged the town before the battle, Adam was tempted to say that he didn’t much care what the owner thought.  But Jim was a better man than he, and he preferred not to shock him.  He remembered, too, the Confederate soldier who had risked his life to bring water to his enemies’ wounded, and he let that better angel guide his reply.  “I’m sure he’d be glad to comfort a wounded man of either persuasion,” he said.  “Shall I pick you something?”

“Please,” Jim replied.

He probably spent more time that he should have over the selection, but he finally located a series of essays by Emerson.  Bringing it to his friend, he said farewell and again made his way past house after house flying the red flag.  Walking down Water Street, he saw a convoy of litters being transported toward the pontoon bridges.  The wounded were already being moved to safer ground across the Rappahannock River, then.  Jim might not have long with his borrowed book, after all, and Adam knew his friend wasn’t the type to confiscate it.  He wasn’t really looking at the faces lying on the litters too carefully, but one stood out.  “Antonio!” he called when he saw the smooth Chinese features.

“Adam,” Antonio little more than whispered, reaching toward him.

Adam took the hand, although he had to backstep to keep holding it as the wounded continued to move forward.  From the similar bandages he deduced that his Chinese friend also had suffered a shoulder wound.  “I can’t stay,” he said, mindful of his captain’s orders, “but I’ll find you once we’re all on the other side.  Rest easy, my friend; they’ll take good care of you.”

“Yes . . . find me,” was all Antonio had time or strength to say, and mindful of how long he’d been away from his men, Adam hurried back toward the basement.  Soon after he arrived, orders came to form in the street, and the men quickly fell into line, only to have the order countermanded shortly.  It formed a pattern for the entire day: fall in, dismissed; fall in, dismissed, every few minutes all day long.  Little as Adam relished another go at the Confederates’ well-entrenched position, he would even have welcomed the order to assault that hill again, just to finally have a decision made.

Meanwhile, hour upon hour, ambulances moved across the pontoon bridges and up the bank on the opposite side.  The prevailing fog shielded them from enemy eyes, and dirt and straw were strewn over the pontoons to muffle the sound of the crossing.  Straw was also wrapped around the wagon wheels for the same purpose, and it seemed to be working.  The Rebel army appeared unaware of the evacuation, although they might simply have permitted the wounded to leave, since another truce for the burial of dead had been negotiated.  Had they seen healthy, able-bodied opponents escaping, however, pursuit would have been likely, and the Union soldiers would have found themselves trapped between the devil and, perhaps not the deep blue sea, but an ice-capped barrier just as formidable.

By evening most of the wounded had been evacuated.  As the soldiers were once again lined up in the street, General Burnside, distinguishable by his trademark side whiskers, rode by, and the men cheered, some from dogged loyalty and some, perhaps, in hope that his presence meant some sort of movement, at last, was about to happen.  Shortly after dark Adam’s division was ordered to march down Water Street toward the railroad bridge . . . with the sole—and to him, most important—exception of the 27^th Connecticut.  They continued to wait, in increasingly uncomfortable conditions, thanks to the glowering weather.

Around 9 p.m. the envious regiment could hear the muffled steps of men walking, not marching, across the Rappahannock and knew the army was in full retreat.  Now, if the Rebel army could somehow be kept from figuring out what they were doing long enough to get across themselves!  Violent winds from the west blew the sound of the soldiers’ movements away from the Confederates, and a pelting rainstorm blackened the sky and blotted out the light from the moon.  Soaked to the skin, but thankful for nature’s cover, Adam and the rest of his regiment stood for hours, waiting their turn to escape.

Rumors flew that they would be sent out as pickets, to make the enemy believe they were still planning to attack in the morning, and Adam steeled himself to accept the sacrifice of more of his own men and, perhaps, his own life.  In the end, other units were selected, and his inexperienced regiment, which had already endured such a savage baptism of fire, was spared that daunting duty.  At last, new orders sent them a few hundred yards below the railroad, where they relieved the rest of the brigade, who then dematerialized like ghosts into the sheltering night.  Here, at last, they were allowed to rest, and those who could, slept.

It was nearly midnight when the orders they longed to hear finally came.  As Adam stepped onto the bridge to depart from Fredericksburg, he noticed soldiers loosening the moorings holding the pontoons to the south bank of the river and knew they were among the last regiments to leave.  Still, it was not until he touched the opposite bank that he felt truly safe from enemy fire, and though he and all his men were exhausted, that knowledge alone renewed their energy enough for the one-mile walk back to the encampment at Falmouth.

Along the road they met General Hancock, who stopped and asked, “What regiment is this?”

“The 27^th Connecticut, sir,” Adam felt privileged to tell him.

Hancock smiled and nodded.  “Well done, Connecticut!  I am greatly satisfied with your conduct in this action.”

The general’s commendation buoyed the entire regiment, and Adam felt his heart swell with pride on behalf of his men.  Though they briefly lost their way in the heavy rain, they finally reached their camp and collapsed into the blissful arms of exhausted sleep.  Against all odds, the Army of the Potomac had slipped away undetected in one of the most adept retreats in military history.  They would live to fight another day.

~~~~Notes~~~~

The battle of Fredericksburg was the first time an American town suffered a military bombardment, as well as the first instance of urban street fighting.

A mortician did, indeed, greet the Army of the Potomac as they entered town, with printed offers of his services.  Some must have taken him up on it, for their bodies did make it all the way home.

The disgraceful sacking of Fredericksburg by the Union Army happened as depicted and was mostly ignored by the officers.  A few companies of former firemen, however, put out some of the fires.

The Irish Brigade had only one of their signature flags that day because the others had been shipped out for repair from damage inflicted in previous battles.  The stalwartness of those troops is well documented.

There were more assaults on Marye’s Heights than I have depicted here.  For brevity, I focused on those actually affecting Adam and those closest to him.

The “Hail, Caesar” quote was said by a member of General Couch’s staff, but Michael Shaara put it in the mouth of an Irish soldier in Gods and Generals, a novel about Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville.  I find it more likely such a classical reference would have come to the mind of a college student like Adam.

The Confederate soldier who so bravely ministered to the wounded of both sides was Richard Rowland Kirkland.  Denied the right to do so under a flag of truce, he decided to take the chance, anyway, and emerged unscathed.  He later died at the Battle of Chickamauga.  Today, a statue of him stands in front of the stone wall at the Fredericksburg battlefield.

General Hancock did meet the 27^th Connecticut on the road to Falmouth that morning, and though some of the words are mine, he commended them for their behavior during the battle.  His praise surely meant much to the green recruits of whom little had been expected at its start.

Antonio Dardelle and James Brand were both reported wounded at Fredericksburg, and both survived the war.  Like the fictional Jamie Edwards, James Brand later became a minister.  Frank Alling, another actual student at Yale, died at Fredericksburg.

Thanks to General Burnside, a new word was added to the English language.  “Side burns” was coined specifically to describe his characteristic hair style.

 

Chapter 5

The Mud March

An air of despondency, even despair, hovered over the 27^th Connecticut as they mustered for roll call the morning of December 16.  They’d left camp four days before with every expectation of victory since their forces outnumbered the Confederates by almost 23,000.  They’d returned to gaping holes in their line, each one representing a friend, or at the very least, someone they had come to know and respect during their three months together.  And it had all been for nothing.  Not an inch of ground gained to recompense the sacrifice.  In Adam’s regiment alone, 110 who had marched across those pontoons were either dead, wounded or missing, and throughout the Army of the Potomac, the number was just over 13,000.  With so many of their force gone, they could hardly have been expected to feel anything but downhearted, especially in the prevailing fog, whose gloom reflected all their spirits.

Their steps were still dragging and their attitude all but hostile shortly after nine that morning, when General Couch’s II Corps formed for review by General Burnside.  Senior officers rode up and down the ranks, waving caps and swords in a vain attempt to rouse a cheer for the commanding officer of the Army of the Potomac.  The only response they got was a few contemptuous jeers and hisses.  The soldiers knew who had sent them across those bridges and up that infernal hill, and they were in no mood for false praise.

The regiment’s campground was moved to a ribbon of pine trees on the west side of the division parade grounds, but they weren’t there long.  For several days they moved from place to place, until they finally made more permanent camp on the edge of a forest near the Rappahannock, where a slight rise in the ground sheltered them as had the swale back at Marye’s Heights.  When Adam walked to the elevated plain beyond that swale on the following Sunday, he could see the spires from Fredericksburg’s three churches and hear the bells calling the townsfolk, however few had returned yet, to worship.  For the 27^th, though, there would be no worship that Sunday; their chaplain, Reverend Leek, had been wounded in battle.

Adam was feeling sick in body, as well as spirit that day.  Just a cold, he told himself.  He had often preached the benefits of wholesome exercise to Jamie, so he forced himself to take a short walk, despite how he was feeling.  He could see almost the entire town of Fredericksburg, quiet and peaceful now, but the reddish lines of the Confederate earthworks gave witness to what had transpired there.  He walked a little further, but couldn’t see the village of Falmouth, whose dirt streets lay below the bluff to his north.

Feeling tired, he walked back to camp and spent the rest of his Sabbath in his tent.  He tried to compose a letter to his father, but how could he tell even Pa how horrible it had been?  Certainly, he couldn’t share with Hoss or, worse yet, Little Joe, the horrors of Fredericksburg.  Yet he knew his family would hear about the battle and worry, so he scrawled a brief note to his father, stating only that, although the fighting had been tough, he’d come through with nothing worse than a miserable cold.  He used that to excuse the briefness of his letter, and it wasn’t entirely untrue: he was shivering with cold and couldn’t bear the thought of lifting anything so heavy as a pen long enough to add anything else.

*****

Shortly after roll call on Monday, Adam received a summons to see the captain of his regiment.  He immediately headed toward the officer’s tent, his head aching both from the cold and apprehension about what it could mean.  Was it just orders to deliver to his men . . . or had he somehow incurred the displeasure of those above him?  He couldn’t think of any reason for that, but neither could he imagine why the captain would want to see him.  After all, if it was just new orders, those ordinarily came through Lieutenant Worthington—well, usually through Second Lieutenant McCarthy, but he was no longer with them.

Arriving at the regiment’s command tent, he saluted, and after returning it, Captain Livingstone smiled and said, “At ease, Sergeant-Major.  I’ll get right to the point.  Your service in the recent battle has come to my attention.”  Seeing Adam’s sudden blanching, he quickly added, “All favorable, I might add.  We’ve had our eye on you for some time before that.  Your attention to detail and innovation in the matter of our late winter housing, as well as in the heat of the recent battle, and your demonstrated leadership of the men under your charge have not gone unnoticed.  Now, with the unfortunate demise of Lieutenant McCarthy, we have the opportunity to give you the advancement your conduct merits.”

Adam’s heart leaped into his throat.  Surely, the captain couldn’t mean . . . .

“Will you accept promotion to the rank of second lieutenant, Sergeant Cartwright?  It will, of course, include a substantial increase in salary, although when that will catch up to us, I couldn’t say.”

Though daunted by the honor and responsibility, Adam never entertained the idea of refusing, but when he opened his mouth to respond, what came out was an explosive cough.  “Sorry, sir,” he said once he had that under control.  “Of course, I accept.”

“Lieutenant, you’re ill,” Captain Livingstone said.

“Only a cold, sir,” Adam quickly said.  “I’m fit to serve.”

The captain laughed.  “I wasn’t about to rescind the offer, Lieutenant.  However, it does alter my first order, which will now be to report to the surgeon at once and follow whatever treatment he recommends.”

“It’s only a cold, sir,” Adam repeated.  “I don’t need . . .”

The captain eyed him with mock severity.  “It won’t look well on your record, Lieutenant Cartwright, to refuse your very first order in your new rank.”  Seeing Adam blanch, he softened his expression and said, “Perhaps you don’t realize that disease kills as many or more than bullets do, and we’ve already lost far too many good men in the recent fracas.  I won’t risk another needlessly, even if the risk seems slight.  Besides, we are probably going into winter camp and won’t see action again until spring, so take whatever time you need to reestablish your health.  That is an order, Lieutenant.”

Adam saluted sharply.  “Yes, sir!”

Mouth twitching at the sudden transformation, Captain Livingstone returned the salute and dismissed the newly minted lieutenant.

Feeling foolish, Adam nonetheless reported to the surgeon and resisted the temptation to soothe his pride by blaming the captain’s order.  “Minimum duties,” the surgeon advised, “and rest in your tent as much as possible.”  Since the only duty facing him, apparently, was going into winter camp, Adam thought the orders would be easy to follow.  After all, with the elevation of rank, he had a few housekeeping details to attend to that should effectively keep him in one tent or the other.

He was in his old tent, gathering his belongings, when Saul Breckinridge walked in and saw him.  “Are we moving out, then, sir?” Corporal Breckinridge asked.

“Just me,” Adam said.  His smile was tentative, still only half-believing when he said, “You’ll be needing a new tent mate, corporal.”

Saul had no doubt as to his meaning, and his expression openly showed his pride and pleasure.  “You’ve been promoted, sir, and well deserved.  Congratulations!  To second lieutenant, I presume, in McCarthy’s place.”

“You presume more than I would have,” Adam laughed, “but, yes, that’s my new rank, so I’ll be moving in with Lieutenant Worthington.  And—uh—Saul, don’t be in too much of a hurry about finding that new tent mate.”  In justice, he couldn’t say more, but when he’d reported back the surgeon’s orders, Captain Livingstone had asked his recommendation for a new sergeant, and Adam had given Saul’s name.  What would come of it, he couldn’t promise, but by the flush on the corporal’s face, he knew the man had guessed some change might be coming for him, as well.

Reluctant as Adam was to admit it, spending the next few days resting in his tent felt incredibly good.  Coupled with a break in the weather, it replenished him in both body and spirit and gave him time to read the books he’d rescued from the fire in Fredericksburg, as well as to catch up on his correspondence.  He’d been negligent in writing to Elizabeth as often as he should and pushed himself to correct that.  It had been hard to know what to write about the battle, but knowing she’d be impressed with the new shoulder straps he’d sewn to his uniform, even if they were unadorned by a single gold bar, he proudly shared that news, as well as the “substantial increase in salary.”  He discovered it was substantial, indeed, better than $100 a month, when he’d mustered in at $13 and even as sergeant-major, he’d only been elevated to $21.  Odd as it felt to boast of such things, he knew Elizabeth would see the extra money as a prelude to future possibilities, so he swallowed down his reluctance and told all.

He also wrote another letter home, directed this time to Hoss, who would also take pride in his brother’s promotion.  Pa would be proud, too, of course, but he wouldn’t mind getting such news second hand.  Adam still couldn’t think of much that would interest Little Joe, but tagged a short note to the end of Hoss’s letter about all the snow on the ground and the way it had turned the roads into giant mud puddles.  Little Joe, of course, would think that sounded like fun, and Adam was content to leave him with that false impression.  Some things a little boy of five didn’t need to know, but Adam didn’t mind telling him that if he never made a march in ankle-deep mud again, it would be too soon.

When Christmas Day arrived, Adam had greater appreciation for the difference an officer’s rank could make in his life.   On an average day officers ate better than enlisted men, but for Christmas, they had gone all out, even coming up with roast chicken and savory stuffing.  The captain had received a slightly smashed, but still tasty, fruitcake from home, which he shared with them all.  Adam, too, received packages, arriving on the very day.  While the one from the Ponderosa held mostly useful personal items, like warm socks, knitted scarf and mittens, Jamie, in addition to the latest issue of the Yale Lit., had sent something Adam could contribute to the feast.  The box stuffed with Candy Sam’s divinity became an instant favorite with all the officers.  The only thing that cast a dimness over Adam’s day was that there had been nothing, not even a letter, from Elizabeth.

The sunlight, dimmed only by thin clouds, and the gentle breeze wafting the nostalgic scent of pine reminded Adam sharply of home, so he took a chance that a brief walk would not be considered a violation of his orders to rest.  He didn’t push himself hard, however, and spent the afternoon lying on his cot, devouring the Lit., cover to cover.  As he finished the final page, he huffed audibly.

Seeing the scowl on his tent mate’s face, Daniel Worthington quirked a quizzical smile.  “That’s how I’d feel about such a stodgy publication, but I thought it would be right up your alley, college boy!”

Though theirs was still a short-term acquaintance, Adam knew he was being teased and took it in good stride.  “It is, generally,” he said.  “In fact, there’s an article on strategy even you might find interesting.  It is a bit critical of the Army’s leadership, but well written and has some good thoughts.  No, it’s just a closing comment in the Editor’s Table that bothered me.  It states that “the Army of the Potomac is preparing for a successful retreat, in case of an attack from the enemy.’”

“Here, now!” Worthington, incensed, hooted.  “Is this the sort of strategy you think I’d benefit from reading?”

“Different author,” Adam said.  “Both written before the recent battle, of course, but somewhat prophetic.  We did make a rather successful retreat, as I recall.”

“And thank God for it!” Worthington declared.  “But hardly to avoid facing the enemy.”

“Hardly,” Adam agreed.  “We faced them within an inch of our lives.”

“Well, at least, it should be a while before we face them again . . . and thank God for that, too.  Here, let’s see what a schoolboy’s idea of strategy is like.”  He reached for the magazine, and Adam cheerfully handed it over.

If Christmas had given everyone a welcome break in routine, the next day presented them with a gift nobody wanted: orders to cook three days’ rations and be ready to move out on twelve hours’ notice.  Though Adam tried to muster some enthusiasm, he found himself, instead, feeling little but dismay.  The ordered rest in his tent, while frustrating, had seen an improvement in his health, but he still felt he could barely put one foot in front of the other, much less fight another battle. Marching now would be a fine way to say the holiday was over!

The men he would have to lead were just as dispirited, perhaps more so.  After all, with few exceptions, like new sergeant Saul Breckinridge and his friend Marcus Whitcomb’s unexpected elevation to corporal, they’d had no promotion to better their circumstances.  Their food was terrible, the weather miserably cold and thousands had fallen ill.  Like Adam, most resisted a visit to the surgeons.  Add to that the fact that most of them had not been paid for six months, and the army could count itself lucky to be dealing with merely dispirited soldiers and not men in outright rebellion.  The pay problem did not affect Adam personally.  He’d only been in the Army three months and had even received pay while in Washington.  It was frustrating not to receive regular compensation, but he had no one to support but himself, and what the Army provided was sufficient for that.  Still, it added to the general gloom of the entire camp.

So did the interminable waiting for something, anything, to happen.  Then, without explanation, General Burnside was gone—to the White House, rumor said—but speculation was rife about the reason.  Some thought their commander would be recalled after the disastrous defeat at Fredericksburg, others that some new strategy was under discussion, and coupled with the continuing orders to be ready to move out on short notice, Adam feared the latter.  Not until December 30, however, did the order come to actually move, and then only the cavalry did.

One day later, both lieutenants of the company were called to the captain’s tent and received instructions that seemed to belie those of the higher ranks.  “Gentlemen, I think the time has come to make preparations for winter camp,” Captain Livingstone said.

“We’ve received orders, then, sir?” Lieutenant Worthington asked tentatively, hopefully.

“Not exactly,” the captain said with a wry smile.  “I admit I’m taking this action on my own initiative.”  He raised a palm toward his two junior officers.  “And I do remember that once before we thought the same and made preparations back in Washington for a lengthy stay, only to have orders come down that negated all our efforts.  It may happen again, but I can no longer see our soldiers housed under nothing but canvas.  We have a slight break in the weather, gentlemen, so let’s build some cabins, and if orders mean it all comes to naught again . . . well, so be it.”

“The building itself will provide warming exercise,” Adam ventured.  His relationship with the captain being new, he made the joke with some temerity, but was rewarded by the captain’s warm laughter.

“Just so,” Livingstone said pleasantly, “and recalling your fine efforts with the officer’s housing before, Lieutenant Cartwright, I would like you to take charge of that, while Lieutenant Worthington directs the enlisted men’s housing.

Both young lieutenants saluted and indicated their eagerness to follow these particular orders.  “I hope you don’t think I’m getting above my station, sir,” Adam said to his first lieutenant as they walked back to their own tent.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Worthington scoffed.  “Orders are orders.  Besides, I know who’s the better builder, and I’m glad to have you in charge of the officers’ cabins . . . especially our own.”

“Which I’ll see to right after the captain’s, Lieutenant,” Adam assured him.

“Adam, Adam.  It’s just Dan unless we’re in front of the men . . . or those above our station,” the lieutenant said with a grin.  “As an educated college man, even one with a single year under his belt, I’m sure you’re capable of comprehending that simple principle.”

“Why, certainly, Dan,” Adam quipped back, “especially since, without a single year of that same profitable experience, you have been able to formulate it!”

Nodding to concede himself bested in the war of words, Dan said, “If only we can wrestle logs as well as we do words, we’ll make short work of these cabins!”

*****

Adam woke before dawn the next morning, eager to get on with the construction project.  They’d barely made a start the day before, though enough logs had been procured to begin the captain’s cabin, at least.  Dawn of a new year, too, he thought as he rolled out of his cot.  Dawn of new hope, as well, for the enslaved people of the South, for today President Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation went into effect.  Then he sighed.  No, that was schoolboy optimism, and as a mature, thinking man, he was above such vain hopes.  For most of the people that proclamation was intended to benefit, it would be just another working day, for some another day under the lash of an overbearing master.  The edict didn’t free anybody, really.  It only applied to slaves in the rebellious states, which were, of course, the least likely to obey it.  No, they’d have to win this war before emancipation could be enacted where it was needed most, and thus far they’d failed gloriously in every effort.

He made his way to the officers’ mess, and though breakfast wasn’t yet available, he was able to get a cup of hot coffee.  Since it was still early, he decided to walk off some of the nervous energy he felt about the new project and made his way past the headquarters at Chatham House to watch the rising sun slowly lift the fog over Fredericksburg to reveal the three church spires and gave thanks once again that they had somehow survived the cannon’s bombardment of the town.  Adam was glad to see that something remained to give hope to the impoverished residents beginning to filter back to their battered homes—battered, to his enduring shame, by Union soldiers.

He shook his head sadly.  So much damage to so many innocent people.  And for what?  They were no closer now to achieving what “God and conscience” demanded than he’d been back in New Haven.  He felt a sudden desire to talk with James Brand, whose words had inspired his enlistment, but that was impossible.  He’d been shipped to a hospital back East, as had Antonio Dardelle.  Adam had pushed his own orders to see the surgeon to include a brief visit with both his friends—enough to say he’d kept his promise to Antonio, but not enough to give either of them any real support.  He hadn’t yet found time to seek out Mark Wentworth and see how he had fared at Fredericksburg, and that was troubling.  Maybe Sunday?  Shaking off the despondent thoughts, he made his way back to the officers’ mess.  He had work to do today, and as Hoss would have been sure to remind him, he needed to fuel up for it.  Thoughts of his hefty “little” brother and his legendary appetite brought a smile to his lips and fueled him more than the food to start the new day.

*****

Adam felt a measure of guilt at largely hand-picking his work team.  Oh, he’d given his superior, Lieutenant Worthington, first pick, of course, but Dan didn’t know the men in the ranks as well as he did.  He’d made sure that Dan had Sergeant Breckinridge on his team, but had also ensured that he kept Corporal Whitcomb for himself.  That was for personal affinity, however, not because Marcus was particularly skillful as a builder, and Adam paid for that indulgence by appointing the perennial slacker, Michael Buford, to his own group, as well, which should be penance enough for any man.  Besides, he was probably better able to keep the private on track than someone who had yet to learn his capricious ways.

He showed his sketches to Marcus, knowing that he had the intelligence to comprehend and carry them out.  “You understand?” he asked, more as a formality than as expression of any doubt.

“Yes, sir,” Marcus said at once.  “You’ve made it very clear.”  He hesitated a moment and then asked.  “Will you need this sketch after we’ve built the cabin, sir?”

Adam laughed.  He did tend to keep his architectural renderings, but this simple structure was scarcely worth the trouble of storing it.  “No, not really.  Do you want a keepsake, Corporal?”

Marcus smiled shyly.  “No, sir.  Don’t laugh, Adam, but since it’s blank on the other side I thought, maybe I could use it myself.”

“Of course,” Adam said at once, although his brow furrowed.  “Are you short of writing paper, Marc?  I have some if . . .”

“No, sir,” Marcus replied hastily.  “I—well—I wanted to do some drawing . . . in my spare time, of course.”

“Be my guest,” Adam said, “and I’d very much like to see your work when it’s done.”

“Oh, I’m not very good,” Marcus said.  “Just like to record the faces of friends, camp scenes, that sort of thing.  I haven’t had any paper this large to work with, so I thought . . .”

“Take it and welcome, and I really do want to see what you can do.”

Marcus saluted and said, “Yes, sir!” as if he’d just received an order, and though Adam shook his head, grinning as the corporal walked away, he didn’t bother correcting the impression.  Sometimes rank was an asset in getting what one wanted.

*****

Just after the first of the year he finally found time to locate Mark Wentworth and determine that he had survived Fredericksburg and was growing into his role as surgeon’s aide in a way that should ensure his success as a physician back in Nevada.  After treating so many wartime injuries, the simpler bullet wounds he’d meet with there should be the proverbial piece of cake.  Mark wasn’t quartered close by, however, and busy with patients, more from illness than injury now, so Adam doubted they’d find many opportunities for socializing, even in winter’s relative idleness.

He walked toward the officers’ mess with Marcus at his side.  He knew he was stretching the privilege a bit to include the corporal, but also knew there’d be plenty.  There always was for the officers, though the same couldn’t necessarily be said for the enlisted men.  He was showing favoritism, of course, but he’d extend the same privilege to another man the next day to make it more fair.  Marc had brought some of his sketches today, and he wanted a chance to look at them over the noon break.  Once they had filled their tin plates, he guided his friend toward a couple of nearby stumps and said, “Okay, let’s see them.”

“Don’t you want to eat first?” Marc suggested, obviously reluctant to have his work seen.

“Food for the soul first,” Adam insisted as he stretched out his hand.  “Come now, corporal.  Must I make it a direct order?”

Marc thought his friend was probably joking, but he promptly handed over the scraps of paper he’d found to draw on.

“You go ahead and eat,” Adam chuckled.

“Not sure I can,” Marc said with an expression that was half smile and half nervous twitch.

“I’m not that harsh a critic,” Adam chided.  “Eat, boy.”  He turned over the first sketch and almost gasped at the likeness of Michael Buford, down to the private’s characteristic cocky expression.  “This is good, Marc!” Adam enthused.

“You really think so?”

“Anyone would,” Adam assured him.  “You have a genuine gift, my friend.”  He examined the other drawings, one by one, and felt even greater awe.  “Amazing,” he murmured.  “I can draw buildings, trees, that sort of thing, but I could never capture faces with all their nuances the way you have.  Could I possibly keep one of these?”

“Of course!” Marc said.  “I’m flattered you want to.  Take whatever you want.”

Adam selected a scene of shivering men huddled around a campfire and tucked it inside his shirt before picking up his plate.  “Maybe it’ll be inspiration to get these cabins built quickly.”

Marc chuckled.  “Buford says to take your time, that they’ll just have us march out, as soon as they’re built.”

Adam scowled and hoped that the words wouldn’t be prophetic.  The weather had been unseasonably warm the last few days, and that might, indeed, tempt the commanding officer to make one more assault on the Confederate Army before going into winter camp.

He dug in and quickly polished off his own meal, so he’d have time to take the sketch back to his tent before reporting for brigade drill, to him the most frustrating part of the day.  Oh, he understood the importance of being able to follow the commands at a moment’s notice; Fredericksburg had taught him that, but he much preferred the architectural part of his day, even if it only entailed simple cabins.  Personally, he thought drill could wait a few days, while they got themselves under decent shelter, but orders were orders.  So, they could only build in the morning, while devoting the afternoon to the most boring—however important it might be—part of a soldier’s routine.

Despite the interrupted schedule, the streets of camp began to fill with 130 log structures.  Well, half-log structures, at least.  Only the walls of the 7×10-foot cabins were logs; the roofs were formed from two shelter tents buttoned together, the first time such a short-cut had been tried, and doors were generally constructed from used cracker boxes.   Adam came up with a way to strengthen the connection, and soon his innovation was being copied throughout the regiment.  Each structure was meant to house four men, and they made their own choice of mates.  The finishing of each cabin was left to the quartet of men living in it, and some were quite inventive.  Adam helped with the one for Marcus and Saul Breckinridge and the two men they chose to share it.  He recommended building two bunk beds of pine slab to give them more space in the one-room cabin and helped construct a rack for guns and equipment on one side.  The men managed to throw together tables and chairs themselves, using cracker boxes again.

His own cabin was no larger, but he only shared it with Dan Worthington.  Since there were just two of them, he didn’t bother with bunks, and with the time saved, he took greater care with the finishing details.  He constructed the same rack for equipment that he’d devised for his former tent mates, but gave extra attention to the fireplace, scrounging the countryside for stones to mortar together with mud, much as he’d helped to construct in that first cabin he, Pa and Hoss had shared with the Thomases along the Carson River.  He found another pine slab to serve as mantel, which then held his tin plate and cup, alongside Dan’s.

The captain’s cabin, which he had built first, was larger and had two rooms, since it was also intended for use as company headquarters, but Adam didn’t envy him the greater space or the solitude.  He and Dan were congenial companions, and at the end of the day it was pleasant to have someone to talk things over with.   Though Dan’s snore was a lot softer than Hoss’s, it reminded Adam of the early days when he and his brother had shared a room.  It was too soon to call Dan a brother, but the ties between them were growing stronger every day.

Within two weeks log-and-canvas shelters covered the hills and surrounding lowlands, taking on the appearance of a miniature city.  Broad streets ran past division and corps headquarters, with narrower ones dividing regiments, and companies being subdivided by passages resembling alleys in the military town.  Dotted throughout were empty areas, packed down hard, dedicated to the hated brigade and battalion drills and, more universally beloved, to the still-new game of baseball.  Officers usually felt themselves too busy or too dignified to take part in the contests, but Adam took a few swings of the bat and resolved that when he finally got back to Yale, he’d let Lucas talk him into joining the college team.  With his scholarship and his savings from both his summer job and his Army pay, money shouldn’t be a concern next year, and he could indulge in extracurricular activities that had been too costly before—if he could spare the time away from Elizabeth, of course.

Toward the middle of January, the near-useless weapons of the 27^th Connecticut were finally replaced.  At first touch of the Whitneyville Springfield rifle, Adam knew he had a superior weapon in his hands again.  Drill became almost a pleasure with a shiny, new—and more importantly, reliable—rifle to put through the paces.  And, of course, now that they were going into winter camp, he’d have time to become thoroughly familiar with it before he actually had to carry it into battle.

Or so he thought.  Private Buford is a better prognosticator than you, college boy, he chided himself when the foolish dream faded with the mist only days later.  At dress parade came the unwelcome announcement that three days’ rations were to be issued in preparation for action against the Confederate Army, and the movement once again of the pontoon boats did nothing to gladden anyone’s heart or to still the low rumbles of rumor in the ranks.  “Fredericksburg again is what I hear,” Adam overheard one grouser mumbling.  “Ain’t the general got a lick of sense?”

“Well, I ain’t crossin’any stinkin’ boat bridge into that town again!” his companion declared.  “Ain’t no way to win a fight like that.”

“Move along,” Adam ordered.  He couldn’t bring himself to take men to task for speaking the truth, so he settled for keeping them busy.

When he told Dan later about the words he’d overheard, the first lieutenant said, “It’s being said everywhere, Adam, but I, for one, want a chance at redemption against Johnny Reb.  I’m hearing that everywhere, too.”

Adam responded with a slight smile and a nod.  Of course, he felt that, too, at least in part.  His personal honor, as well as that of his regiment and, indeed, the entire Army of the Potomac, had been singed in the recent confrontation, and he did want to restore it.  That, however, was an unworthy motivation, compared to the one that had brought him here.  And not a single slave would be any freer if they made another futile attack against Fredericksburg.  He knew it and so did every man who would have to serve under him.  At least, they’d had hope the first time, but that was gone now.  How could he even begin to command troops so thoroughly demoralized?  He couldn’t share his self-doubts with his cabin mate, but maybe Dan could help reestablish his own resolve.

The next dawn found him ready to face the new orders, but none came.  Here the Army was again, prepared to march out, three days’ rations in hand and . . . nothing.  Rumors, of course, again began to float through the ranks.  “It’s Jeb Stuart, joshin’ us again,” Adam heard from the usual sources.  It was a reasonable guess, since the Confederate general had once before telegraphed orders to Washington, pretending to be a Union general requesting supplies, and had received them.  Adam didn’t believe it this time, though, and time proved him right.  Still, time brought no better explanation for the silence from on high.

*****

On Tuesday morning, January 20^th, definitive orders finally came.  Addressing the assembled troops, General Burnside told them, “The auspicious moment seems to have arrived to strike a great and mortal blow to the rebellion, and to gain that decisive victory which is due to the country.”  What, Adam wondered with a fair degree of cynicism, made this moment any more auspicious than the hundreds that had gone before it?  The weather, perhaps?  They’d had a stretch of sunny Indian summer, which had dried the roads and would make any movement less daunting than the December crossing of the Rappahannock.  However, the enemy still lay across that river, still behind that invulnerable stone wall, and in fact, were now even more firmly entrenched.

The new plan did sound more promising, though.  Most of the Army would march six miles upriver to Banks Ford, throw pontoon bridges across the Rappahannock again and come in behind Fredericksburg this time, hopefully catching Robert E. Lee by surprise.  It could work if they moved quickly.  Of course, that was what the President was supposed to have told Burnside the first time, but the delay in receiving those pontoon boats had frustrated the Army at every step back in December.  Now, though, they already had the boats and the weather remained good, so despite his cynical edge, Adam found his hopes rising . . . until he learned what part he and everyone else in the II Corps was assigned to play.

For they weren’t going to Banks Ford with the rest of the Army.  No, General Sumner’s entire Grand Right Division was staying right here, doing their best to look like an innocent winter camp, until the other two divisions had crossed the river.  Then they were to cross at the same spot they had before and head straight for that infernal stone wall again.  If the other troops did enough damage to the Rebels before they reached it, they might fare better than they had before, but it was still a daunting prospect for anyone who’d faced it so futilely before.

Adam thought his chances of surviving that formidable venture a second time were pretty slim, and he felt an almost overwhelming desire to write his father one last time.  While the two chosen brigades were busy taking the shelter-tent roofs off their cabins, leaving the log walls, and breaking up all the furnishings crafted in expectations of several months’ residence there, he chose his words carefully.  He couldn’t, of course, say anything about the battle plan.  Such things had been intercepted by the enemy before, so even if his inclination had been to unburden himself of his fears for the immediate future, he couldn’t have.  However, he’d never been the kind of boy who would shift his burdens to other shoulders and he hadn’t grown into that kind of man.  He wrote only of his love and respect for his father, his appreciation for all Pa had taught him and given him, the sort of things a man said when he thought he might be losing the opportunity to say them forever.  He feared Pa might read between the unusually expressive lines, but he had to take that risk.  If the worst came, Pa’d treasure those heartfelt lines from the boy he’d never see again.

Once he’d sealed the letter, he quickly wrote a note to Jamie, revealing nothing, but reminding him of an earlier promise to wire his father any news of immediate concern and requesting his urgent prayers.  The letter would probably arrive too late for the latter to be effectual, but at least Jamie would be able to read the casualty lists in the eastern newspapers and shorten his father’s painful wait for news of his son.  As he sealed the second letter and delivered it to the outgoing post, he wondered why he hadn’t thought to write, as well, to Elizabeth.  Perhaps to spare her.  Or perhaps because her own letters had been less frequent of late.  He couldn’t have shared his real feelings with her, anyway, and she wasn’t one for reading between the lines.  That must be it, he decided.  What was the point of writing to someone unless you could somehow communicate your true feelings?  He’d write her later, when . . . if . . . he had some news of the sort she’d enjoy.

Knowing he wouldn’t see action that day, Adam wandered to the edge of camp and watched Hooker’s and Franklin’s divisions march out, to the tune of “Yankee Doodle.”  Were the Rebels camped across the river not supposed to hear that?  Or not understand it meant that the Union Army was heading out?  As he looked across the river at the fearsome Heights they’d assaulted before, Adam found himself hoping the enemy would think the Army was moving north, to a more congenial winter camp, maybe even back to Washington itself.  Then he realized that would require a remarkable turn of good luck, and thus far, their luck had all been of the other sort.

Shaking his head, he walked back toward his cabin.  The sky overhead was beginning to cloud up, but the air was still warm, at least throughout the afternoon.  As the sun set, though, a thick fog moved in, and chilly drops of rain drove everyone indoors.  The jealousy Adam had felt toward the divisions setting out to redeem the Army’s honor dissipated in gratitude that he’d been elected to stay behind, under cover from the increasingly heavy rain.

Throughout the night, rain pummeled the walls of the cabin Adam shared with Lieutenant Worthington.  As it pelted down harder and harder, both young officers found sleep nearly impossible, especially with the wind howling through the trees.  By dawn an unrelenting torrent was pouring down on their hapless heads as they sloshed through camp streets that had become ribbons of mud to form their grumbling troops for roll call.  “The Army won’t make much progress through this,” Dan almost shouted to be heard over the still whipping wind.

“Probably on their way back already,” Adam called back, and Dan nodded his agreement.  Throughout the day, they expected the others come slogging back into camp, but by the time they retired for the night, they still hadn’t seen a single soldier.

For four days the rain continued without abatement . . . and without sign of Hooker’s and Franklin’s divisions.  Lest he go stir crazy, Adam ventured into the storm from time to time, and though he never stayed long, he always came back soaked to the skin.  “You are a stark, raving madman,” was Dan’s verdict.

On one of those crazy walks, he saw a sign posted across the river and moved closer to see what it said.  Taunting words were painted on the rough lumber in black block letters: Burnside Stuck in the Mud.  As if that weren’t enough, a Rebel soldier hollered at him from the opposite side, “Hey, Yank!  Want some help layin’ pontoons?”  Adam could hear the raucous laughter as he turned his back and walked away.

“Sounds like the Rebs may know more about our fellow soldiers’ fate than we do,” he reported to Dan.

“Maybe they’re just guessing,” Dan said.

“Maybe,” Adam admitted.  After all, it didn’t take much of a guesser to figure out that wherever the Army of the Potomac was, it was probably stuck in the mud.  Even on the short walks he’d taken, he’d felt like the mud might pull the boots right off his feet.  How much worse for men actually trying to march?  And the horses!  How hard the going must be for them, pulling the supply wagons and pontoon trains.

When Hooker’s and Franklin’s men finally tromped—or more accurately, staggered—back to camp, they did, indeed, tell terrible tales of shoes sucked off, wagons mired up to their wheel hubs and horses dying of exhaustion after struggling through belly-deep mud.  “At least, few men were lost,” Dan said after listening to Adam’s furious rant on the subject.

“Even an animal shouldn’t be subjected to pointless death,” Adam bit out as he continued to pace the small cabin.  He’d been taught, from infancy up, to put his animal’s needs before his own, and to see them so disregarded sent an icy frisson up his spine.  Needless, pointless . . . the words seemed to sum up his entire experience with the Union Army, and he still had six months of his commitment to fulfill before the whole, futile exercise could end!

Adam’s discouragement, however, was mild compared to that of the men who had actually gone on what would become known as the Mud March.  As they dragged back into camp, those left behind learned of the utter chaos the marchers had endured.  Ground too soggy for sleep, they had huddled around meager fires, shivering in wet uniforms in the barely-above-freezing air.  Not so much as a square of hardtack to blunt their gnawing hunger.  The rain had soaked their haversacks, ruining the rock-hard bread and leaving them only cold salt pork to eat.  They had tried to follow orders, to keep marching, but they couldn’t maintain order, and isolated men had wandered around, separated from their units and confused as they dodged around wagons and mules mired in the mud.  Almost none of the regiments came back as a united whole.  In their mud-coated uniforms, one regiment looked much like another, and the individual units lost cohesion.  Depleted men straggled back, two or three at a time, and some never made it.  Completely exhausted, they wandered off into swampy fields, lay down and died; others apparently decided they’d had enough of the Army’s ill use and granted themselves a permanent furlough.  Desertions had already been high after the Fredericksburg debacle; now they exploded.  To keep up the men’s spirits, Burnside had issued rations of whiskey, but the liquor only made things worse, as entire regiments started drunken brawls with each other, the only targets in sight for their anger and frustration.  One wag boasted that he’d taunted the commanding officer by saying, “General, the auspicious moment has arrived!”  It was insubordinate, of course, but who could blame him?  Apparently, not even General Burnside.

And what had they returned to?  A camp devoid of all comfort.  With permission from his captain, Adam organized a crew to offer help to other regiments in getting their camps back in order, but there was little he could do.  Some, thinking they were on their way to Richmond, had burned down their cabins.  Adam ignored those fools and first concentrated on helping others get their shelter tents back on the bare log walls.  Any help was appreciated by the exhausted marchers, but all the furnishings had, on orders, been destroyed, so there was nothing to sleep on, nothing to sit on, no makeshift pots and pans to cook with, even if there had been much to cook.  His own men weren’t much better off in that last department, but Adam shared what rations he could and felt heartened when he saw men under his command doing the same without being ordered.  He was absolutely flummoxed that Michael Buford was one of them.

When he mentioned his consternation to Dan, however, the first lieutenant just laughed.  “The power of attraction,” he said and added, when Adam shook his head in continued befuddlement, “He admires you and wants the excuse to be near you.  Your own personal pet puppy.”  And he cackled still more raucously at the look on Adam’s face.

“Surely not,” Adam insisted, although weakly.

“Surely so,” Dan said with a grin.  Then, sobering slightly, he said, “It’s a good thing . . . influence . . . and you’ve got it in spades, Adam, and not just with that loafer.  I doubt I would have thought of helping those poor men without your sterling example.”

“Oh, stop it,” Adam said.  Much as he appreciated the admiration of a man he also admired, he was embarrassed at the sentiments he himself found so difficult to express.  Not that he always agreed with Dan.  In fact, they had a notable exchange of words only a few days later.

Actually, it was Michael Buford who started it when he shared the latest camp gossip with Adam.  “All the other commanders were against that fool mud march,” the private confided.  “Burnside was the only one who wanted it.”

“Not exactly news, private,” Adam said with a wry twist of his mouth.

“No, but this is,” Buford insisted.  “General Hooker says that nothin’ll go right until we have a dictator, and the sooner the better!  I reckon he thinks he’s the man for the job.”

Adam had dismissed the private with a curt order not to spread nonsense, but Dan got an earful of his opinion of the suggestion he thoroughly believed had come from the self-promoting general himself.  “A flagrant disregard for the Constitution!” he fumed when they were alone in their cabin.

Dan let him rant on for a bit, but finally had enough.  “Oh, get off your high horse, Cartwright!  What this army needs is a leader!”

Cartwright, Adam noticed, not Adam anymore, but then he didn’t lean toward first names when he was put out with someone, either.  “A leader, not a dictator, Lieutenant!” he fired back.  “Men died in the Revolutionary War to oppose that!”

Lieutenant Dan spread his uplifted palms in concession.  “I can’t counter that . . . or wish to, but change is in the air, my friend.  I think you smell it as strongly as I, and it just might be Fighting Joe.”

“Well, he can’t do much worse,” Adam conceded, “but I’ve only been in the Army three months, and that would make the third commander in that short span of time.  How can any army hope for cohesion with constant change?”

“And that we do agree on,” Dan said.

Both young lieutenants realized that things had reached a crisis when word filtered down that General Burnside had gone to Washington for a meeting with President Lincoln.  Rumor said that heads would roll.  The question was: whose?  Adam felt confident of his own leaders’ worth, from Captain Livingstone up to the commander of II Corps, General Couch, but wondered whether they might get caught up in some general purge, just on stuck-in-the-mud Burnside’s say-so.  Beyond them, he wouldn’t question anyone’s removal.

“It’s Burnside or Hooker,” Michael Bufford, gossipmonger extraordinaire, confided.  “Heard Burnside’s layin’ it down for the President: one or t’other’s gotta go.”

“Have you considered a career in journalism?” Adam asked wryly.  Like a true reporter, Bufford never revealed his sources, but most of the time, his “I heard” predictions had been dead right.

“Aw, you’re joshin’ me, Lieutenant,” Bufford said, though with a light in his eye that said he hoped not.

“Somewhat,” Adam admitted, “but if you improved your language skills, who knows?  You’ve got the nose for news, Private.  So, who do you think will go?”

Still trying to absorb the possibilities the lieutenant had painted for his future, Bufford hesitated and then sighed.  “I wish I could say Burnside, sir,” he said, “but the Army ain’t got nothin’ right yet, so we’ll probably keep him and head out on another mud march soon as he gets back.”

Adam snorted and almost said, “I hope not!” but he stopped himself in time.  He just might be the one source of the private’s gossip that did get identified by name.

It was January 26^th before the news came.  General Burnside had been relieved of command, and in his place was the man whose dismissal he had demanded, General Joseph Hooker.  Adam voiced his amazement to his first lieutenant.  “How can we be so hard up for leadership that a man who advocated dictatorship is put in command?” he asked Dan.  “Does Lincoln not know what the man said?  Or is he so out of touch with how things are out in the field that he doesn’t know who to trust?”

“I don’t know what the President knows,” Dan said, “but I, for one, welcome the change.  Hooker, at least, had the wisdom and the personal grit to oppose Burnside’s strategy at Fredericksburg.  And he has the reputation of a fighter.”

“Both points in his favor,” Adam agreed.

Men below them in the ranks were divided in their views.  Some greeted the ascension of Fighting Joe with hope for future success; others were disdainful that the boastful Hooker would make a better commander than any of his predecessors.  Adam thought his old tentmate, Saul Breckinridge, worded it best.  “If a man must toot his own horn,” Saul confided, “like as not it won’t make a tuneful sound.”

*****

General Hooker wouldn’t get the chance to prove himself in battle until Spring, but he instituted changes in the soldiers’ routine almost immediately, almost all uplifting the morale of the troops.  One change began, fortuitously, the day before Hooker’s elevation, and it was probably the most important.  The paymaster finally arrived, bringing salaries paid in “green rags” with Secretary of the Treasury Salmon Chase’s picture on them.  Back home, Adam would have spurned anything but gold or silver coinage, but the war had led to the issuing of paper currency.  Since the sutlers, who arrived at the same time, accepted greenbacks, they were as good as coin, at least in the Army.  While prices were exorbitant, with butter at sixty cents a pound and cheese at fifty, Adam was willing to pay it, as were most of the men since rations were still in short supply, a situation being blamed on the condition of the roads.

Hooker set about changing that right away, and within a week all their spirits rose in response to the better diet.   Large bakeries were built and in only a few days the men were indulging in hot loaves of fresh bread—four rations each week!  And the food just kept coming: beef, both salt and fresh, pork, beans, peas, rice, potatoes and pickles—even sugar for their coffee!  The men of the Army of the Potomac thought they were in heaven, even if it was a heaven only a starving soldier could appreciate.  One remarked, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, they say, and is a soldier not a man?”  That sentiment was met with loud hurrahs from all who heard him.  Complaints were rare, although one man declared they were only being fattened for the slaughter, “like a herd of poor oxen.”  He was the exception, however.  With 800 tons of supplies now arriving daily, most were content with their improved diet.  Hurrah for Hooker!

In addition, new sanitary regulations soon enhanced their health, as well.  Periodically, the canvas roofs of the huts were removed, so sunshine and cleansing wind could freshen the interiors; blankets and bedding were required to be aired daily and the floor of each hut carpeted with pine boughs, whose fragrance reminded Adam of home and, he was sure, helped him sleep better each night.  Eighteen-inch drainage ditches were built around the cabins, and kitchen refuse had to buried each day.  Areas designated for latrines and drinking water were carefully separated.  The changes even extended to personal grooming.  Men had to wear their hair short, bathe twice a week and change their underwear at least once a week.  None of that was new to Adam, of course, but the change it made when all the soldiers complied was striking.  Communicable diseases and those caused by unsanitary conditions dropped dramatically, and from February through April, the number on the sick rolls would drop by more than 46,000.

It didn’t happen overnight, but the morale of the Army of the Potomac gradually rebuilt.  In December and January, they were referring to this winter as their Valley Forge. By February, however, they were beginning to dream of another crack at the Rebels.  And there were more changes instituted to ensure they’d be ready when winter ended.  Daily drill was never really welcome, especially in the snow, but it assumed a new importance in the wake of the defeat at Fredericksburg.  Next time, they would be ready!  And the officers, too, among whom Adam was now numbered, would be more ready, as well, thanks to the schooling they received each evening and practiced the next day by conducting maneuvers with companies, regiments, brigades and divisions.  It all built their confidence for when they would again engage the Confederates.

However, picket duty, once a delightful change of routine, became the least anticipated duty in camp.  At seven o’clock in the morning, every other day, the 27^th Connecticut’s quota of the division’s requirement gathered their blankets and one day’s rations and formed in front of their Colonel’s tent.  They were inspected and then marched a mile to General Hancock’s headquarters for another inspection and finally moved two or three miles to the shore of the Rappahannock, which soon became as familiar to Adam as the Carson River back home, where he, Pa and Hoss had spent an idyllic winter in a cabin with the Thomases.

At least, it seemed idyllic in retrospect.  Adam wondered if that winter had actually been as cold and forbidding as these tramps through the snow with icy gales snaking down his collar and icy pellets of rain, sleet or snow battering his face.  Of course, back then he’d always been able to go back inside whenever he wished, while here he just had to endure whatever Nature sent his way with nothing more to look forward to than a bowl of dessicated vegetable soup when they returned to camp.  Adam, along with many others, referred to the bricks of compressed string beans, carrots, turnips, beets and onions as “desecrated” vegetables, except when coming in from the cold of picket duty; then, he thought that soup was the elixir of the gods, simply because it was warming.  It still tasted like garbage and made him long for the four times a week he could anticipate something better.

On milder days they even practiced a little frowned-upon fraternization with the enemy.  What did it hurt, after all, to exchange a little Yankee coffee for Rebel tobacco?  Adam didn’t smoke himself, but thinking of what it would have meant to Pa in similar circumstances, he looked the other way when his men received the little makeshift boats that sailed across the river from Fredericksburg, offering tobacco to the “Gentlemen of the United States.”  And when a grinning Michael Bufford presented him with a recent issue of a Richmond newspaper, obtained the same way, he felt amply rewarded for overlooking the rules.  Stricter rules came down later, specifically forbidding the trade in “foreign” newspapers, but on the rare occasions he could get it, Adam couldn’t resist getting the other side’s perspective on the war and became adept at separating rumor and propaganda from genuine fact.

Many days were anything but mild, however, and General Hooker proved himself more concerned about his men than rules and routine on those days.  With the enemy just across the river, pickets were still necessary, but once the general had ventured out and experienced the hardship for himself, he cut their number in half and raised his popularity a hundred times over, converting all but the most diehard McClellan advocates.  That general supposedly had taken even better care of his soldiers, to the extent, some said, that he was unwilling to use them in battle at all.  Adam had never known him, though, and as far as he was concerned, Joe Hooker was the best he’d seen.

On the days he was virtually confined to his cabin, Adam spent long hours corresponding with friends and family.  At first, he wrote to Elizabeth at every opportunity, but paper being dear, he gradually restricted his missives to once a week.  Even so, he was sending out more than he received, and those were mostly filled with news (more truthfully, gossip) that he scarcely found interesting.  It was becoming harder and harder to find topics in camp life that would interest her, either, and he surmised that was probably why they were both writing less often.  Once they were together again, he assured himself, all that would change.

He never had that problem when writing to his friend, Jamie.  He could say anything to Jamie and know that he’d savor each detail, even when it was basically bellyaching about the miserable weather.  Jamie never rebuked him, but wrote back long, encouraging letters about how he was looking forward to having him back at Yale and rooming with him again next year.  “Luke and I are getting along fine, but he just isn’t you, Adam,” he wrote.  Jamie, bless him, also faithfully reported the latest campus news and each month sent a copy of the Yale Literary Magazine, which Adam, and then Lieutenant Worthington, read cover to cover, fresh reading matter being at a premium in winter camp.

He wrote back to Nevada only slightly less often.  For his family, he tried to leave out anything negative, like bellyaching about the weather, and sometimes there was precious little else to say.  Snow, snow and more snow!  Still, he tried to put something together once a week, just to reassure Pa that he was well, and for Pa, he assumed that would be enough.  He’d understand the confinement of winter quarters better than anyone.  It was harder to come up with something that would interest Hoss and still harder with Little Joe, but whenever something amusing happened in camp, one or the other of them would get a letter postmarked Falmouth and know big brother hadn’t forgotten them.  He didn’t get as many letters as he sent from his family, either, but he understood.  Posting a letter, for them, often required a long ride into town, and Nevada winters made staying at home the best, and sometimes the only, option.

Still having time on his hands, he sent out missives to friends like Billy Thomas, who was almost guaranteed not to write back, and Ross Marquette, who likely would, though not at any great length.  He also made a point of communicating with men like James Brand, who despite being wounded, still managed to send more encouragement than he received and his newer friend, Antonio Dardelle.  Antonio, he learned from a return letter in the first half of February, was being transferred to a hospital near New Haven, so he sent a quick note to Jamie, asking him to visit the young Chinaman.  “Take some money from my account,” he requested, “and buy him a good quality book on philosophy, as well as an entertaining travel account.  I think you’ll enjoy his company as much as he does yours.”

Beginning the middle of February, Adam had little to write anyone about except the weather.  On the 15^th the usual Sunday inspection was cancelled, due to a rainstorm which continued for several days.  Rain gradually gave way to snow, and each day piled more on the already over-sodden camp.  Adam woke on the 20^th to ten inches on the ground to celebrate a birthday everyone seemed to have forgotten.  He knew he wasn’t being fair.  Pa wouldn’t forget, of course, and had probably sent something to mark the day, but mail was rarely on time, even if it did arrive more frequently these days.  Jamie, too, was likely to send something, hopefully a new book or magazine, and, being closer, it should arrive closer to the day than Pa’s was likely to, but it wasn’t here today.    He was twenty now, he thought, wrapping gloomy thoughts around him like a dark cloak, with no guarantee he would ever reach the magical age of twenty-one, when most men would accept he was now one of them.  He didn’t need that marker, however, to tell him that he was a man: he was proving that every day of this miserable existence, even if he did wonder why he had thought it so important to leave school so he could sit and shiver in a tent all winter.  Happy birthday, indeed!

He hadn’t been entirely forgotten, however.  Though it was late in the day Marcus Whitcomb came by to deliver a whole sheaf of drawings, including a self-portrait and one of Adam himself, blowing out twenty candles perched on an exceptionally large piece of hardtack, in lieu of cake.  Making the day still more special, they were joined by James Brand, recently returned from the hospital in Alexandria, and the three of them, along with Dan Worthington, who hadn’t known it was Adam’s birthday, enjoyed a conflab such as they hadn’t had since their last visit to Mory’s back in New Haven.  “If only we could celebrate over Golden Buck,” Marcus moaned nostalgically.

“Alas,” Adam sighed, “I fear we have only soup de desecrated vegetable.”

“Which is a feast, compared to hospital fare,” James laughed, putting them all to shame before he and Marcus returned to their own cabin mates for a supper which was exactly what Adam had predicted.  However, neither dismal weather nor dinner disappointment nor even a cloud-covered sky that blacked out the stars, could darken his thoughts now.  He’d been remembered with simple gifts and the fellowship of friends, far more than he’d thought possible when the day started.

The weather was no kinder when a birthday no one forgot arrived two days later.  The continuing snowstorm on George Washington’s birthday, so close to his childhood home, made everyone remember Valley Forge.  They weren’t starving, as the Revolutionary soldiers had been, and they were better clothed.  That acknowledgement, as well as the arrival of a new book from Jamie, were reasons to celebrate, even though the snow reached seventeen inches by nightfall.  Would it ever end?

~~~~Notes~~~~

President Lincoln had heard of Joe Hooker’s remark that the government needed a dictator and addressed it: “Of course, it was not for this, but in spite of it, that I have given you the command.  Only those generals who gain successes can set up dictators.  What I now ask of you is military success, and I will risk the dictatorship.”

Joseph Hooker got his nickname thanks to a missing comma in a news headline.  It was supposed to read, “Fighting, Joe Hooker.”  Instead, it said, “Fighting Joe Hooker,” and the general was thereafter known by that name, though he hadn’t earned it.  Remember, writers: punctuation matters!

Some of the information about weather in this chapter comes from Civil War Weather in Virginia by Robert K. Krick, derived from temperature readings taken three times a day and the reports of soldiers, like Adam, who had little else to write home about that winter.

 

Chapter 6

Cold Comfort on the Eve of Battle

At first, it seemed the snow would, indeed, never end.  One soldier complained that March came in “like a lion and left like one, but not a dead one by any means.”  The mid-month storm rivalled any they’d faced all winter, beginning with rain and finishing up with snow.  The river swelled to flood tide, making Adam feel that it was spring on the water, while still snow-locked winter on shore.  Gradually, spring prevailed.  Seemingly overnight, the snow melted, the ground thawed, and the mud began to dry.  As Adam sat outside his cabin one day, sewing on his new corps badge, he could hear bluebirds and robins twittering in the trees and knew that if spring hadn’t fully come, it was, at least, well on its way.

“You’re a pretty nimble seamstress,” Lieutenant Worthington observed as he watched Adam affix the red trefoil to his cap.

“Seam-sir, if you don’t mind,” Adam said with a playful arch of his eyebrow.

Dan laughed.  “I’ll call you whatever you please if you’ll stitch mine on, as well.  I think they’re a good idea, but my fingers fumble with those tiny needles.”

“Glad to,” Adam said as he gave his “nimble” fingers a stretch.  He, too, thought the corps badges were another excellent innovation put in place by their new commander.  The three-lobed shape would tell anyone at a glance that he was part of II Corps, while the color designated that he belonged to Division 1.  Not only did the symbol look sharp against the dark hats, it gave the soldiers a sense of unity and corps pride.  More importantly, it made it easier to identify a man’s unit and steer him back where he belonged, if he became separated, as had happened to so many at Fredericksburg.

Both young lieutenants were even prouder of their smart new look when the news came that Abraham Lincoln himself was coming to Falmouth to review the troops.  The President—here!  Anticipation rippled through camp, from lowest private to highest general.  Or so Adam imagined.  In truth, he had no way of knowing what generals felt, but if he and Dan were any representation of those higher up, no one in the Army of the Potomac was unaffected by the upcoming visit.

On April 8^th the whole army gathered on a vast field that had been cleared on Falmouth Heights, too far for the enemy’s cannons to reach, but in their full view.  That was by plan, of course, to impress the Confederates with their strength, and an impressive sight it was: 85,000 men marching in formations two companies wide, demonstrating their readiness to renew the battle.  And they were ready.  Adam felt it in his bones and his spirit soared.  The changes General Hooker had made had put them in a fighting condition that had never been better.  The long winter’s wait was finally past, and they were poised on the edge of a spring campaign that was bound to be different from all the defeats that had gone before.  Adam felt eager to get the job done and return to civilian life.

The review lasted two days, but the II Corps was among those inspected the first day, so Adam didn’t have to wait.  The President’s party first rode along the entire line, Lincoln’s long legs seeming to almost drag the ground on a horse too short for him.  The visitors carefully inspected each regiment, and then passed the line in their rear.  Finally, the President and his staff found a favorable viewing position, and the assembled corps marched before him once more.  As Adam moved past Abraham Lincoln that last time, he felt a surge of excitement.  He saw him only briefly, of course, but he felt such reverence for the man—had ever since Pa first read aloud his “House Divided” speech in an Eastern newspaper—that he could hardly contain himself.  His determination to fulfill Lincoln’s vision of a Union restored, in a land where all men were free, sprang to life again from its wintry grave in Fredericksburg.  He knew the newspapers called the President the “Original Gorilla” and mocked him for his folksy attitude and supposed lack of intelligence, but to Adam and, indeed, most of the soldiers, he was Father Abraham, who would lead them to the Promised Land of renewed harmony between the now-belligerent states.

That evening he eagerly began writing to all his family and friends, happy that he had news even Elizabeth would enjoy.  With Pa and Jamie, he could fully express his heart, while he was glad to finally have news he felt appropriate to send his little brothers.  Little Joe, of course, was too young to appreciate what a visit from the President meant, but even he could enjoy a description of the parade and of seeing Lincoln’s little boy, Tad, bouncing around his long-limbed father.  Hoss would enjoy all that, too, and soak in each detail with a better understanding of what it meant to his big brother.

Elizabeth’s was the only letter he actually completed that evening, since first Marcus and, shortly after, Jim Brand dropped by to share their excitement.  He had the following day basically free, while the remaining corps were reviewed, so he’d have time to write everyone else then, and failing that, he could finish up on Sunday.

He had all the letters written by Monday morning and felt himself well rewarded when a stack of letters came his way at mail call, including one from Elizabeth that immediately took preference over all others.  It had been so long!  As soon as he was alone, he tore into it, but had read no more than the first sentence before his face fell and he felt himself teetering on the brink of a precipice:

 

Dear Adam,

No doubt you have begun to realize what I now clearly perceive, namely that our relationship has grown more distant over the time we have been apart.

 

More distant?  Why would she think that?  Geographically distant, of course, and, he supposed, the infrequency of his letters had added to the detachment.  He’d struggled to know what to write that wouldn’t assault her feminine sensibilities, so much more delicate than his own.  Camp life and the weather had provided so little to interest her, but he’d tried.  Dreading the next words, he nonetheless read on:

 

Indeed, now that I consider it more fully, I wonder how we were ever persuaded that two such completely different people, from such opposing backgrounds, could hope to forge a lasting bond.  That being the case, I feel it is more honest to face that fact and make a clean break, so that we may both pursue more congenial companionship elsewhere.

 

A clean break?  She was breaking it off with him?  And in a letter?  If only they were face to face, he was sure he could make her understand that what they shared totaled up to more than what made them different.  Maybe he could get one of the furloughs General Hooker had extended the men to boost morale.  Goodness knew, his morale could use the boost of a trip back home!  He hurried to finish the letter, planning to make the request as soon as he did:

 

This will be my last letter, and I ask that you not attempt to renew our correspondence or persuade me to do so.  I wish you better success in your quest to defend the Union than you have thus far found, and I truly bear you no ill will for the time I have expended in trying to make this relationship viable.  It was never meant to be, but of course, I remain your devoted friend,

Elizabeth

 

His face hardened, and tossing the letter down on his cot, he began to pace the limited space of his cabin.  Her final request was a stab to the heart, but when she followed it up with an attack on the Army’s defense of the Union, anger flared to block the pain.  Oh, it was true enough that they hadn’t found much success, but she didn’t know how hard they’d tried, how many had given their very lives in that quest she so lightly disdained.  Well, maybe that was his fault.  Maybe he’d tried too hard to shelter her from the realities of war, as he had his little brothers, and rightly so in their case; they were children.  She, on the other hand, was supposed to be a grown woman!  Maybe he should have rubbed her nose in the blood and stench of the rotting corpses on the hillside at Fredericksburg!

Her final words stabbed even harder.  So, she bore him no ill will for wasting her time, did she?  And what, exactly, had she done to “make this relationship viable”?  She’d written less often than he!  And she was the one cutting off that correspondence and suggesting they find “more congenial companionship elsewhere.”  If there was anyone whose time, as well as substantial amounts of money, had been wasted on the relationship, it wasn’t her.  It was him.

Suddenly depleted, he sank to the cot and buried his face in his hands.  His cabin mate chose that inopportune moment to walk in.  Adam bolted to his feet and tried, futilely of course, to cover his surging emotions.  “What is it?” Lieutenant Worthington asked at once.

“Nothing,” Adam snapped and instantly regretted it.  “Sorry,” he said.  “Unpleasant missive from home.”  Dan deserved that much explanation, and he hoped the other officer would leave it at that.

He didn’t, of course.  “I thought things were settled between you and your father.”

“They are,” Adam quickly said.  “I should have said New Haven.”

For a moment Dan looked perplexed.  He’d heard about Ben Cartwright and his original objections to Adam’s enlistment, but everything he’d ever heard about things in New Haven had indicated full support.  Then, suddenly, he knew, for Adam wasn’t the first soldier who’d received that kind of letter from a sweetheart back home.  “Want to talk about it?” he asked softly.

A look of horror flashed in Adam’s eyes, which he quickly covered.  “No,” he said firmly.

“I’ll just give you some space, then, shall I?” Dan suggested.

Adam uttered a sharp laugh in response.  “No, you stay.  I think I need to walk it out, and I’ll try not to take it out on you when I get back.”

“Can if you want,” Dan said with a lopsided smile.

Adam nodded and left immediately.  He wouldn’t take his friend up on the offer, of course.  Sharing personal feelings just wasn’t in his nature, and at any rate, their acquaintance was too new for that.  Maybe if it had been Jamie, who would eventually have to know, in any case.  Impossible to live in the same room with someone as close as Jamie without his noticing that Elizabeth was no longer part of his life.  He stopped still in sudden consideration.  Perhaps Jamie was exactly who he needed to talk to.  Perhaps his friend could even be a go-between to speak to Elizabeth on his behalf.  Wasn’t it, after all, part of a pastor’s calling to bring reconciliation between people?  If only it didn’t take so long to seek counsel by mail, much less get an answer back!

Then Adam realized there was someone much closer at hand, who shared the same calling.  Opening his heart, even to someone as trusted as James Brand, was not a decision he could make lightly, so he’d take the rest of today to think it through and then sleep on whatever decision he came to.  Time and consideration might even offer another solution.  Satisfied with his plan, he walked back to the cabin in a much better frame of mind than he’d left it.

He was even gladder to have slept on it when he woke the next morning, for he had remembered certain facts that altered his view of the situation.  It was April 14^th, and though it had been months since he was a schoolboy perusing the student catalog, he remembered that as the last day of the second term.  It meant that Jamie would have just finished his exams and would no longer be at Yale after today.  He’d be on his way home to Springfield, Massachusetts, to spend the term break with his father.  He could still write his friend there, of course, but that prospect was less appealing.  There was no way guileless Jamie could hide from his father whatever he felt in response to such a letter, and for Adam to reveal his confusion and hurt to Josiah would have felt almost as impossible as confessing it all to his own father.  It wouldn’t do, not at all!  Writing to his dearest friend suddenly became the least desirable option.

That left James Brand . . . or no one.  He spent a distracted morning nearly sleepwalking through his daily duties while he pondered which option to choose and finally decided that afternoon that he’d be likely to continue in that state if he tried to keep it all to himself.  Distraction was a decidedly dangerous state of mind in which to enter the spring campaign, and rumors had been circulating since March that action would take place soon.  The daily balloon ascensions over Fredericksburg fueled them, and while everyone prayed they wouldn’t try to cross there again, President Lincoln’s visit, as well as a spotting this very day of Stonewall Jackson, just across the river, pointed to the likelihood that that was exactly where he was headed.  Since Adam could see the now-strengthened rifle pits and earthworks for miles up and down the Rappahannock, covering every possible crossing, the prospect was daunting and definitely not one to face with a distracted mind.

Daily routine being what it was, he wasn’t free to visit Brand until after supper.  He approached the corporal’s cabin with some hesitance, for while he knew unburdening himself was the wisest option, it still wasn’t appealing.  No man enjoyed looking like a fool in front of a comrade, and Adam had a feeling he’d been one.  Knocking on the door and being invited to enter, he did, though he’d barely stepped inside when he said, “I hate to ask you to step into the chill, Corporal,” he said, “but could I possibly speak with you privately?”

Something in his voice must have revealed his somber mood, either that or James Brand’s pastoral intuition was especially keen, for he rose at once and followed Adam outside.  They walked to a spot where a fallen log offered a place to sit, and once they did, Brand asked gently, “How can I help you, my friend?”

The use of the more familiar greeting told Adam that Brand understood that it was as a friend, not a superior officer, that he’d come.  “I need your counsel, Pastor,” he said simply.

“I’m not . . .” Jim started to protest.

“Closest thing we’ve got, having lost our chaplain,” Adam said with a slight quirk of his mouth.

“I’ll help if I can,” Jim said.  Like Jamie, he took his future calling seriously; also like him, he considered friendship almost equally one.

“I think, probably the best way to begin is to let you read this,” Adam said, extending Elizabeth’s letter.

Sensing the reluctance with which it was offered, Jim received it as a sacred offering of trust, opened it and read the scant lines, his face growing more sober with each one.  As he handed the letter back, he said quietly, “I’m sorry, Adam.  Unfortunately, you’re not the first soldier to be abandoned by the girl back home.”

“So I’ve heard.”  Adam heard the bitterness creep into his voice and regretted it, but it would have been hard to disguise in any case.

“And I imagine knowing you’re not alone is not much help.”

“Not much,” Adam admitted with a wry smile.  “I don’t suppose I’m looking so much for help as some advice on how to respond.”

Jim sighed.  “Well, you could write her, of course, though she’s asked you not to.  I think the first question you should ask is whether you really want to pursue a relationship with someone who’s shown so little loyalty to you.”  For a moment he looked like he wanted to say more, but he stopped.

Adam, however, had caught the look that crossed his friend’s face and asked, “What?”

Jim wet his lips.  “I hesitate to say it, Adam, but I had my suspicions about her feelings for you well before we left New Haven.”  Seeing Adam’s shocked expression, he hurriedly added, “I had seen her around town with more than one man in uniform, but I didn’t like to judge.  It might have been her brother or a cousin, after all, so I didn’t say anything.  Perhaps I should have.”

“She doesn’t have a brother,” Adam said, almost in a daze, “nor a cousin in the army, as far as I know.  I didn’t have an exclusive claim on her, of course.  We weren’t engaged or anything like that, but we talked about a future together.  I thought we had an understanding; I thought . . . we were in love . . . but maybe it was only the uniform she loved.”

“Then she’s a fool,” Jim said firmly.  “You’re one of the finest men I know, Adam, and though I doubt it comforts you much now, you’re well off without someone that shallow.”

Adam nodded absently.  In time, perhaps, that might comfort him, but it seemed like cold comfort, at best.  He still felt stunned, and though Jim offered a few more words of counsel—possibly from the Scripture—by the time he reached his cabin again, Adam couldn’t recall them.  He sleepwalked his way through final roll call at 8:30 and turned in, as required, by 9:00, but there was little sleep for him that night, regrettable in light of what awaited him when he woke.

 

Chapter 7

Chancellorsville

“Supply the men with eight days’ rations,” Captain Livingstone ordered early the next morning.  “Five to be carried in their knapsacks, three in the haversacks.  Everything that can possibly be left behind is to be turned in to the Quartermaster: overcoats, dress overcoats, anything unneeded on the campaign.”

“Yes, sir.  I’ll see to it, sir.”  Adam saluted crisply, as did Lieutenant Worthington at his side.  Almost instantly, he cursed his mistake and the continuing distraction that had no doubt caused it.  “Sorry,” he said to Dan when they were alone.  “I should have let you answer, as the senior officer.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dan snorted.  “When it matters, I’ll let you know.  Well, it looks like we’re headed for battle.  As long as it’s anywhere but Fredericksburg, I’ll welcome it.”

“Anywhere but there,” Adam echoed.

Dan’s gaze narrowed.  “Is your heart in it?  Or, maybe more importantly, your mind?”

“It will be,” Adam promised grimly.  Anything else could mean death, not only for him, but for any man fighting at his side.  Whatever pain or anger or confusion Elizabeth’s letter had produced, he’d have to set it aside and concentrate on the battle to come.

It would have been easier if the battle had come as promptly as expected, but day after day passed, and while the orders never changed, not one step was taken outside the camp.  “Ought to know the Army by now, sir,” Marcus drawled in a droll imitation of Michael Buford.  “Hurry up and wait.”

Hurry up and wait, and in the meantime be rousted for daily inspections to make sure what seemed increasingly like pointless orders were carried out.  The weather may have been partly to blame, for it stormed for two days.  After the infamous Mud March, no soldier welcomed the prospect of slogging through Virginia muck and mire.  However, the storm abated by the 27^th of April, and it became increasingly obvious that this time the Army meant business.

The storm took one casualty of significance to Adam, for Corporal Marcus Whitcomb developed chills and fever severe enough to send him to a hospital in the rear by the time the order finally came to strike tents and pack up as quietly as possible.  Though Marc protested the order to remain behind, orders were orders.  Adam understood his friend’s frustration, but he couldn’t help wondering if Marcus were the lucky one.  Before the week was out, he would be certain of it.

At daybreak the next day, the 27^th Connecticut, now assigned to the newly formed Fourth Brigade, under command of Colonel J. R. Brooke, marched out.  They left behind a landscape radically transformed from what it had been four months before.  The forests that had covered a hundred square miles were gone, leaving nothing but stumps and here and there a lone tree to mourn what once was a beautiful scene.  Adam mourned, too, as his mind returned to the sweeping pine forests of the Ponderosa and his father’s adage to replant any ground they stripped.  No time to do that here, nor much inclination to restore enemy territory, but he grieved nonetheless.

To the band’s strains of “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” a tune that did nothing to lift Adam’s spirits, the division marched from General Hancock’s headquarters at seven o’clock.  They were headed, they soon understood, for the United States Ford to cross the Rappahannock River once again.  “At least, it’s not Fredericksburg,” Adam muttered to Dan as they marched northwest.

“Not directly, at least,” Dan grunted back.  “We may get there from the back side this time.”

“So long as we don’t have to face that accursed stone wall again,” Adam said.  “That’s all I ask.”

“I may give it my backside, if we do,” Dan declared, and Adam grinned at what he knew was a completely idle threat.  By this time he knew his fellow lieutenant well enough to be certain he wouldn’t turn his back to the enemy, much less desert his men under fire.

United States Ford was the last chance to avoid crossing two rivers, instead of one, for it rested just below a fork in the river, where the Rapidan slanted from the northwest into the larger river.  It was only ten miles above their winter camp at Falmouth, if they had followed the river’s course, but the Army took a more circuitous route.  Probably to avoid their movement being seen by the Confederates camped just across the river, Adam surmised.  He was all for that!  And the further north they went, the less likely they were headed for Fredericksburg and the accursed Heights behind that stone wall and the closer to . . . New Haven and the girl who’d left him behind.  He grimaced, deliberately shutting off the picture of Elizabeth.  He didn’t have time for that now!  Just keep putting one foot in front of the other, he told himself, like you did through the Forty-Mile Desert on the way west.  Walk, walk, walk had been his refrain then, and march, march, march became his internal chant now.  Put one foot in front of the other and blank your mind to anything except that essential movement.

This was no desert, however.  Everywhere were signs of Spring’s return.  Along the road anemones and violets poked their colorful heads through the soggy soil, and as the soldiers left the devastation of the campground behind, dogwood blossomed in nearby groves, and peach trees budded pink around scattered farmhouses, long abandoned.  After an easy day’s march, they made camp in a strip of woods, only to rise and follow the same routine the next.  March, march, march . . . if only it were absorbing enough to keep a man’s thoughts from where they shouldn’t go!

The men of the 27^th had just pitched their tents and begun to brew coffee and fry pork when the order came to fall in.  Stuffing their suppers into their haversacks, they marched about a mile to picket the nearby woods.  Unnecessary as it seemed, the enemy remaining across the river from all reports, spies might be lurking in the woods, and there were southern sympathizers everywhere to serve as additional eyes and ears for the Confederates.   Almost every civilian along their line of march had been placed under house arrest to prevent it; still, better safe than sorry.  Their suppers were cold by the time they could eat them, and the rain that fell that night on their unprotected heads, light as it was, left them uncomfortably chilled.

It was afternoon before they were relieved of picket duty.  Under gray skies they hurried to catch up with the rest of their brigade, which had already broken camp and moved out again.  Not an easy task, for it had rained just enough to turn the already-saturated roads into the all-too-familiar Virginia mud.  March, march, march became slog, slog, slog, and while pioneers had been sent out to corduroy the roads, they quickly became clogged with the line of supply wagons that always traveled with the Army.  Frustrated shouts and the crack of the teamsters’ whips filled the air.  The eerie, wavering cry of a screech owl pierced the cacophony, providing the only sound that wouldn’t let the Army of Northern Virginia know they were coming.  But, Adam supposed, complete surprise was probably too much to hope for from the beginning.  Robert E. Lee was no fool.

The corps had almost reached the Ford when they were ordered to halt and wait for the final pontoons to be laid across the Rappahannock.  Delay was always frustrating, of course, but encouraging news from the front, combined with the sun’s sudden eruption from the cloaking clouds, heartened everyone.  General Hooker’s dispatch told them the rebels were retiring, thanks to the efforts of the Fifth, Eleventh and Twelfth Corps.  That, of course, explained why the Second Corps had been able to lay the pontoons for their own crossing with no opposition.  Late that afternoon they marched down a wooded bank and crossed the river.  Passing two pieces of Confederate artillery, spiked to render them useless, they moved about five miles through the woods.   The constant movement of troops before them had deteriorated the roads but they finally reached their destination and bivouacked for the night near the Chancellor House. The large brick structure situated at the junction of two roads was the only building around, but it was known by the more glorified name of Chancellorsville.

Despite being the last day of April, it was cold, but the soldiers were laughing with joyous exuberance as they chopped firewood and pitched tents in open spaces along the turnpike  They were further buoyed by Hooker’s General Order, read to them at evening parade: “It is with heartfelt satisfaction that the commanding general announces to the army that operations of the last three days have determined that our enemy must either ingloriously fly, or come out from behind his defenses and give us battle on our own ground, where certain destruction awaits him.”  Cheers erupted as the men tossed forage caps and knapsacks into the air, and the brigade bands began to play.  That night, though their blankets froze to the ground, the Army of the Potomac bedded down in better spirits and higher morale than at any time since Adam had entered service.  Major-General Joseph Hooker had rebuilt them after the devastation of Fredericksburg, and they were ready for the challenge of battle once again.

*****

May Day dawned with a dribbling rain that layered the terrain with misty fog, making the thick, intermeshed undergrowth of The Wilderness even more formidable.  However, the sun soon came out, revealing blackjack and hickory just leafing out in spring green, and began to clear the air and dry the flower-dotted roadsides of gray sand in which they lined up in the early morning.  It gave Adam his best opportunity for a closer look at the nearby Chancellor House, and he longed for his sketchbook.  Not essential marching equipment, however, so he had to settle for committing the building’s lines to memory, which he had ample opportunity to do during the seemingly endless wait.  The austerity of the two-story red brick was broken up and rendered more charming by the opening in the middle to accommodate a wide porch on the first floor with a matching veranda on the second, each adorned with four white columns.

The waiting was frustrating, though Adam could, in part, understand it.  The weather made the surveillance balloons useless, and General Hooker apparently was reluctant to advance without knowing the enemy’s position, a reluctance the Confederates appeared to feel, as well.  As the hours passed, neither army seemed ready to join battle, and except for occasional, distant cannon fire, the morning was quiet for Adam and the rest of the 27^th Connecticut.  Michael Bufford took advantage of the lull to sidle up to his old tentmate with the latest gossip.  “Hey, Lieutenant,” he said, “you hear what General Hooker said about the battle to come?”

“I believe we’ve all heard General Order Number 47, Private,” Adam chuckled.

Private Bufford flapped a scoffing hand in his lieutenant’s direction.  “Not that.  What he said after—private-like.”

“As in like a private might say?” Adam teased.

“No,” Bufford sighed with drawn-out patience.  “Like a general might say when he thought there was only officers listenin’.”

“And how might you hear that, Private?”

“I keeps my ears to the ground,” Bufford answered.

Adam smiled roguishly.  “Since that’s not where your ears should be, I believe you.”  Seeing that he’d pushed the man’s exasperation as far as was reasonable, he said, “All right, Private.  Let’s hear the latest trickle-down gossip in the ranks.”

With a wide grin Bufford cozied up to his second lieutenant’s ear and said, “General Hooker said God Almighty couldn’t stop the destruction of the Rebs!  What you think of that?”

“I think it’s wise for a lieutenant, much less a private, to keep his opinion about the private utterings of generals exactly that—private,” Adam said tersely.

“Well, okay,” a deflated Michael Bufford pouted.  “Just thought you’d want to know.”

“And I do,” Adam admitted, taking pity on the man who, despite his better judgement, he liked.  “Just don’t spread it in the ranks . . . and that is an order, Private.”

Bufford’s saucy grin returned as he saluted and was dismissed.

“If he can resist disobeying that order for ten minutes, I’ll be surprised,” Adam said to his fellow lieutenant when he relayed the gossip to him.

Dan Worthington shook his head.  “It’s a shocking statement, if credible.  I know General Hooker has a reputation for arrogance, but I can scarcely believe even he would challenge God Himself to thwart his plans.  Only a fool does that!”

Adam acknowledged the words with a nod, although he wasn’t sure what he thought about the statement.  Oh, he believed in God, but he wasn’t sure how much the Almighty was involved in this war.  If anything, he’d have thought God would be on the side of those fighting to free enslaved people, but if so, why had the Union lost battle after battle to the slave-holding South?

Unlike Dan, he fully believed Hooker was arrogant enough to dare even God to stop him, but did it matter what he said?  Wasn’t God big enough to ignore the rantings of one arrogant nincompoop in favor of the greater good?  Wasn’t He more likely to listen to the prayers of righteous men like James Brand, for instance?  He hoped Hooker’s brash words wouldn’t reach Jim.  The general had done a superb job of rebuilding morale, but men like Jim needed to believe that God was on their side.  The problem, Adam realized grimly, was that Robert E. Lee, also a reportedly godly man, no doubt believed the Almighty was behind the other side.

By eleven, the skies cleared, and though he still lacked the support of the balloons, Hooker ordered portions of three corps to advance by three different routes.  Hancock’s division followed the troops of General George Sykes’ V Corps toward Zoan Church, where Hooker intended to establish his new headquarters.    Unfortunately, he chose to move a day late.  Confederate forces had been digging in for twelve hours on the strategic ridge near the church.

Sykes’ men met the enemy’s skirmish lines three miles east of Chancellorsville and pushed them back at least another mile.  However, they advanced so quickly that they outpaced the flank units supporting them.  The enemy closed in from both sides, and by 1 p.m. Sykes was in danger.   Hancock’s division was sent in to support them, so Lieutenants Worthington and Cartwright quickly got their men moving down the Orange Turnpike.  By the time they reached Sykes’ men, they found them pulling back to gain a better defensive position; the tired troops fell behind them, and with the rest of Hancock’s division, the 27^th Connecticut came to the front and took Sykes’ place.

The sounds of battle grew increasingly closer as Adam and Dan, following their brigade leader Brooke’s orders, led the men up a ridge and turned into an open lot on the left.  Moving into position, Adam felt a surge of expectation. This time the Union Army would have the high ground, as the Rebs had at Fredericksburg.  They were again headed toward that scene of their former defeat, but this time they were coming in from behind the Heights.  Surely, this time the result would be victory!  His brief revery was interrupted by heavy artillery fire, which unsettled all the men, since they could sense the enemy drawing closer, but still couldn’t see them through the tortured tangle of the Wilderness.

It was at that point, though Adam would not learn of it for hours, that Major-General Hooker seemingly panicked.  When he was advised that Stonewall Jackson was approaching from Fredericksburg, he knew the odds against him were mounting, but instead of fighting them with his still-superior numbers, he chose to recall all three columns to Chancellorsville.  Establishing Hancock’s men in the road as a rear guard, General Couch, commander of the Second Corps, quickly sent an aide back to protest that Sykes was in no real danger.  While he waited to hear back from Hooker, Rebel artillerymen saw Hancock’s troops and began testing the range.  Confederate fire increased, other units were driven back, and Hancock’s right flank became exposed.  Couch told his staff to draw fire and led them to an open knoll, where they could easily be seen.  The ruse worked, and the troops were able to pull back with little appreciable loss, to Adam’s eternal gratitude.

A disgusted General Couch received a second “positive order” to disengage by 5 p.m. and was forced to begin a fighting withdrawal.  When he could no longer hang on, Hancock ordered his division to fall back behind Sykes, fighting all the way.  Some of the still-green boys of the 27^th Connecticut threw away blankets and knapsacks so they could run to the rear faster.  Adam and Dan were trying to restrain them when Brooke saw them and yelled at them to march back where they had started and pick everything up.  The shame-faced lieutenants had just headed the men, fully equipped once more, to the rear when the troops encountered a broad, but shallow swamp and tried to skirt around it.  At that moment Hancock himself rode up, face blazing.  With curses and gestures flying, he ordered, “Dash through that swamp or you will all be taken by the enemy!”  Suddenly realizing how close the Rebels were, the men of the 27^th needed no further urging as they tromped straight into the water.

Thanks largely to Hancock’s division, many of whom were veteran soldiers, the retreat was an orderly one.  By evening they found themselves back where they had started, in the open ground near the Chancellor House.  They weren’t in that dangerous clearing long, but as they moved to a nearby crossroads, they ran into an unexpected challenge.  Rather, the challenge ran into them, when artillery blasts panicked a herd of cattle, brought along to provide fresh meat.  They stampeded, heads down and tails up, across the same space the soldiers were trying to cross.  Mostly undamaged, though thrown off balance, the men made their way through the almost impenetrable lattice of vines and underbrush on their left, faced east and waited for an imminent charge from the Rebel army, who now occupied the high ground the Yanks had just left.  Fredericksburg all over again, even without that stone wall, Adam moaned internally, and he had no doubt his thoughts were echoed throughout the discouraged ranks of the 27^th Connecticut, if not the entire army.

Confederate artillery sent shells crashing through the darkening woods, bursting above their heads, but no infantry followed.  Instead, the smoke-filled air grew quiet, and the men who had waited with nervous patience for the iron hailstorm to cease went to work, entrenching themselves against the attack that was sure to come with the morning.  The whack of axes and the thud of falling trees echoed through the woods from both sides of the ravine between them and the Rebels.  Intermittently, the hailstorm would begin again, and the Union soldiers would dive into the trenches and wait for the next opportunity to dig them deeper.  It was well past nightfall before the artillery barrage ceased altogether, and weary men tried to rest, despite the chill that descended due to the restriction against fires.

Learning that Sergeant Breckenridge had been wounded, Adam took advantage of the lull to walk up to the Chancellor House.  The wounded were arriving there in every sort of wagon available, ambulances having been kept to a minimum.  Perhaps, he thought sourly, the boastful commander had assumed there would be few casualties in this quest that even God could not stop.  Teamsters, orderlies and runaway slaves milled about the yard, along with soldiers of all ranks, while the wounded were deposited on the porch and veranda, wherever there was room for them.  He found Saul on the second-floor veranda, being tended by one of the women from the Chancellor family.  Confederates, to be sure, but their womanly pity seemed to have stirred them to overlook the blue uniforms and help the suffering Yankees.

“Where are you hit, Sergeant?” Adam asked as he bent over the subordinate officer he had come to consider a friend.

“Just below the clavicle, they tell me, sir,” Saul said, “but it seems to have missed anything vital, and praise God, I’ll not lose a limb, like some of these poor sods.”

Recalling the piles of severed limbs he’d seen outside hospitals after the Fredericksburg fiasco, Adam closed his eyes briefly, but gathered himself almost immediately.  “That’s good news, Sergeant.  We can ill afford to lose men like you.”

Saul looked perturbed.  “That’s just it, sir.  They’re sending me back behind the lines, taking me out of action.  Can’t you put in a word for me?”

“Not on your life!” Adam hooted.  “Count yourself well out of it, man.  There’s nothing happening here that you need put yourself at risk for.”  It was the closest he would come to outright censor of superior officers, and he quickly stifled any further comment in that vein.  “You will obey all orders of the medical officers, Sergeant, and thus live to fight another day.”  How profoundly he hoped that would not be true!  The men of the 27^th Connecticut were less than three months from mustering out of the Union Army, and as far as Adam was concerned, if they didn’t fight another useless, ill-led battle in that period, it would be fine with him.  Fighting Joe Hooker had given him hope, but when the time for action came, he’d fizzled out, making the polar opposite mistake from General Burnside, who’d assaulted an impenetrable position over and over when all hope was lost.  Much as Adam hated to lose his vision for securing freedom for the slaves and the reunification of the Union, it was fading in the midst of repeated failures to accomplish anything.

*****

Neither Adam nor anyone else in the Army of the Potomac had the vision to see what lay before them that next day, but actions were already in motion that would completely alter Hooker’s hopes for victory at Chancellorsville.  May 2^nd was a pleasant morning, and the balloons were aloft as dawn broke, but the fierce wind again made surveillance from them impossible.  Southern surveillance, though at ground level, had been much more successful, and Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson were already acting on it.  Learning that the Union Army’s right flank was unprotected, Lee had made a bold decision to split his forces and send Jackson’s 25,000 troops on a long march around Hooker’s forces to attack it, while he led distracting demonstrations against the Union’s center and left.  If Hooker realized the Confederate forces were divided, it would prove fatal to the men in gray, but the terrain of the Wilderness itself would hide much of the movement.  It was a chance worth taking.

After a night of little sleep, Adam got his men up sometime between 2 and 3 a.m.  Along with Hancock’s entire command, they marched, as quietly as possible, into the road past the Chancellor House to cover the turnpike to Fredericksburg and the ground on either side.  It was frustrating to see the Rebels immediately occupy the breastworks they had worked all night to erect.  The Union men knew it wouldn’t matter in the long run, however; they could easily occupy those trenches again, if need be.  What bothered them more was spending the entire morning building new breastworks, while listening to sounds of real battle elsewhere on the line.  Oh, they had a few shots and shells sent their way, but not enough to give much concern.  “Might as well stayed where we were, if we’re not gonna do nothin’ anyhow,” Private Buford groused to anyone who would listen.  While most of his comrades agreed, they were too tired to give him more than groaning assent.  Felling trees and digging trenches was taking all the energy they had. Then Major-General Hooker rode along his new line of battle, shouting “How strong!  How strong!” and all the men took heart and cheered.

Though the sight of rations being divvied out at noon caused increased activity from hungry Rebel riflemen, the 27^th’s position took only sporadic fire until late afternoon.  Then fierce cannon bombardment, supplemented by muskets, rained heavily on Hancock’s division, their position being in advance of the main line.  Unknown to Hancock’s men, the heightened activity was intended to distract attention from the real target on the far right, for as a spectacular rainbow arched across the western sky late that afternoon, Jackson’s long trek ended.  He was ready to attack.

The Union forces weren’t entirely unaware of his presence.  All through the day reports had made their way back to Hooker that movement had been spotted through the trees.  He thought the Confederate Army was probably retreating to the south and sent around orders to replenish supplies and be ready to move out early the next morning.  He did, however, take the precaution of warning General Howard, whose XI Corps anchored the Union right, to consider the possibility of being flanked.  Since he didn’t really believe it himself, he may not have worded that suggestion strongly enough, for far from being on guard, the XI Corps was settling in for the night.  Tents were set up, weapons stacked, card games in progress and bands playing.  The most important thing on those soldiers’ minds was the supper being prepared over company cookfires.

About 5:00, a stampede of deer, rabbits and other assorted game burst from the Wilderness and ran into camp, knocking over campfires, scattering shocked men.  The dazed soldiers didn’t react quickly, but when they recognized the cougar-like cry of the Rebel yell, they realized that behind the panicked animals stormed a hoard of southern soldiers. Then they ran for their stacked weapons.  Some reached them in time and tried to return fire; some turned and ran the other way before the combined onrush of beasts and men.  Since the majority of them were of German extraction, they would soon become known as “The Flying Dutchmen,” although the indictment was scarcely fair.  Given how quickly they were overwhelmed, there was little any reasonable man could do but run for his life, and it wasn’t long before the Germans were joined by every other ethnicity represented in the corps, as the helter-skelter swarm of men surged east.

Somehow, the noise of the assault didn’t reach the rest of the Army of the Potomac until about 6:30 when riderless horses suddenly galloped past the Chancellor House.  Driverless wagons and horse-drawn artillery careened by.  Mounted officers charged along the line of panicked men, yelling orders that were ignored as the foot soldiers cried out in mixed German and English for directions to the river.  “Worse than the charge of the Texas steers!” one wag hollered, referring to the previous day’s excitement.

The maddened stampede swept over Adam’s company, for their position was directly in the XI Corps’ path of escape.  If his men hadn’t stopped them from running into their rifle pits, the frantic soldiers would have trampled straight through into the enemy’s open arms.  Lee’s forces, facing them, cried aloud in triumph and intensified their attack.  General Hancock rode up to the 27^th’s own Colonel Bostwick and said, “You probably won’t be called into action,” but Adam could see the excitement in his eyes as he continued, “Hold your position, and if necessary, you can fight on both sides of your breastworks.”  Adam exchanged one glance with his fellow lieutenant before he and Dan started running in separate directions down the line, preparing their company for the daunting prospect.  Hancock’s words proved prophetic, and soon they were caught in the midst of a hail of bullets, canister and grape shot, coming from both directions.  Through the woods, Adam could see Union artillery being rushed into position, and soon the Wilderness was shaking with cannon shot and wreathed in thick smoke that further darkened the descending twilight, making their position beneath the trees ink-black.  The bright, full moon and cloudless sky, though, gave an unusual amount of light to the attacking troops.  Adam wouldn’t have given a shiny copper penny for their chances.

It was a scene of utter confusion: fragmented regiments trying to rally, couriers racing to deliver orders, stretcher bearers transporting the wounded.  As a brass band formed in the open area and began playing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” the men broke out in cheers and found new courage to fight on.  Portions of the Wilderness were on fire, and the sky seemed sheeted with lightning as shells repeatedly exploded.  From the woods came the screams of wounded horses, mingled with the agonized cries of men.  About the time Adam decided they had been consigned to hell, the firing would pause for a moment, and the calls of whippoorwills suggested heaven hadn’t abandoned them yet.  Then the hellish sounds would start up all over again.

No one slept much that night, officers least of all.  Fire to their rear and off their right flank encouraged even dead-tired men to dig deeper trenches and build higher barriers of knapsacks, logs and tangled brush.  Fog hugged the banks of the Rappahannock in the hours before dawn that Sabbath morning, but Confederate troops were already on the move.  The roar of enemy muskets took away Adam’s appetite for breakfast, but he ate anyway, purely from a sense of duty.  He also encouraged any men who were slow to line up for the meal, pointing out that opportunities might be few later on.  “We need all our strength for what’s ahead,” he said lightly, hoping the touch of humor would disguise his very real concern about what the day might hold for his beleaguered troops.

The battle began suddenly at 5 a.m. with artillery flying at them from front, right and rear.  Most of Hancock’s men, Adam’s company included, were moved to the road running north from the Chancellor House.  By nine that morning, they found themselves in real peril, and the possession of Chancellorsville itself seemed to be the only thing left to fight for.  They quickly left their trenches again and formed a new line in the clearing around the house, where all hell broke loose.  About fourteen pieces of artillery kept the enemy’s infantry from reaching them, although their battle flags were just a few hundred feet away.  The morning grew hotter and more humid, their throats and lips increasingly parched.  Some men couldn’t resist taking a mouthful of lukewarm water from their canteens, even at the risk of losing a limb or, perhaps, even their lives.

The Confederates were firing artillery, too, and suddenly Adam saw the Chancellor House burst into flames.  With thoughts of Saul Breckinridge, trapped inside, he immediately started toward the burning building, only to have his arm grabbed by Lieutenant Worthington.  “Your duty is here, Lieutenant!” Dan snapped.

Adam started to protest, but then came to his senses.  “Yes, sir!” he said sharply.  He started to salute, but Dan batted down his hand.

“Not the time or place,” his superior officer growled.  “See to our men; someone else will see to the wounded.”

“Yes, sir,” Adam said.  In a softer voice, he added, “Sorry, Dan.”

With a crisp nod, Dan pointed to his left, while he turned to go right, down the line, admonishing the men of their company, and Adam did the same in the opposite direction.  He was relieved to see men from the 2^nd Delaware, brigaded with them and popularly known as the Crazy Delawares, follow one of Hancock’s aides into the blazing Chancellor House to get the wounded out.

Busy with his own duties, he never saw Saul carried out, but sometime later, glancing that direction, he noticed a group of women being hurried down the steps.  Though he only spared them a moment’s glance, he saw one lady’s leg shot away and another lose the side of her face.  Then with horror-struck shock, he saw a black woman running straight into the Confederate lines.  Did she not understand that freedom lay with the Union troops or was she so confused she didn’t know where to find safety?  Perhaps she was just running toward the only way of life she had ever known.  However, Adam couldn’t waste more than seconds on such speculations, for shot and shell continued to rain upon him and his men.

The woods caught fire, underbrush flaring up quickly and flames eating their way up to the tops of the tallest trees.  Men choked on the suffocating mixture of wood smoke and battle smoke that all but blinded them in the stifling air.  The situation was even graver than they knew.  Adam himself was too preoccupied with the immediate danger to his front to understand just how the Rebel cannonball striking the porch column of the Chancellor House was destined to reshape the entire battle.  For the heavy timber had struck the commanding officer on the right side.  Adam knew nothing until Lieutenant Worthington came up behind him and leaned close to his ear.  “Hooker’s down,” Dan whispered.

Adam gulped.  “Dead?”

“No, but knocked senseless.  Too groggy to be much use.”

“Who’s in charge?” Adam croaked, feeling life or death hung in the balance of the answer.  He breathed a little easier when Dan told him it was Couch; he could trust the leader of his own II Corps, whose advice, though unheeded, had been spot-on at Fredericksburg.  Word came down the line that they’d be pulling back to a new defensive position, covering the road to United States Ford and escape back across the Rappahannock, but for the 27^th Connecticut, safety would be a long time coming.  Hancock’s division was assigned to cover the retreat, which meant that just as at Fredericksburg, they’d be among the last to leave.

In the meantime, the smoke grew thicker, as debris left behind by the retreating troops caught fire.  With it came an unbearable stench.  Adam tasted bile as the contents of his stomach surged up his throat, for he realized the reek of burning flesh meant that many of the dead, too deep in the snarled undergrowth to be evacuated, had been left behind to the flames.  And the terrified screams echoing through the woods meant something worse.  It wasn’t just dead bodies burning; some of the wounded were also trapped in the blazing maze of the Wilderness.  Adam only thought he’d been in hell before.  Now the flames were licking out for his own flesh, and all around him tortured souls were crying out for mercy they would never receive, at least this side of heaven.

Almost out of ammunition, he at first rejoiced when orders came from headquarters that Hancock’s division could leave.  One by one, the regiments were pulled back, but about 11:30 a.m., just when it appeared to be the 27^th Connecticut’s turn, they were ordered to go forward and relieve the advance picket line.  It was only fair to take those men out first, he conceded; they’d borne the brunt of the attack all morning, but one of the 27^th’s sergeants said it best: “I, for one, begin to smell a small rat.”  Adam, too, felt an ugly suspicion that it really was Fredericksburg all over again.  Not only would their small regiment be among the last to leave; as in December, they’d be the last of the last.

He took satisfaction, however, in seeing their colors retire, as well.  Normally they would not be part of an advance picket line, and protecting their battle flag was a matter of pride for all the men in the unit.  However, to Adam, it meant more.  As color-sergeant, his dear friend James Brand would be among those carrying the flag back across the river.  He, at least, was on his way out of hell.

The men moved forward, at the double-quick, into the same entrenchments they had constructed Friday evening.  Plunging down the hill into the ravine, they encountered heavy musket fire, and several were shot, some through the head.  When the Rebels didn’t immediately obtain their objective, they didn’t force the attack, but scattered into the Wilderness.  Concealed there by the twisted vegetation, they kept the Union men pinned down with scattered shots.

The regiment’s colonel, however, refused to be pinned down.  Despite repeated warnings from Lieutenant-Colonel Merwin, Adam saw Colonel Bostwick again and again expose himself to enemy fire as he directed the regiment’s action.  He felt proud, worried and amazed at his leader’s luck all at once, and he felt almost the same emotions about Michael Bufford.  While the private had always been unstintingly lazy and remarkably dense in daily drill, now that the battle was real, he seemed equally eager to hazard his life.  “Keep your head down!” Adam felt forced to order practically every time he came near him.  And Bufford always followed the order . . . for at least thirty seconds.

The Rebel guns were scarcely 500 yards from them now.  They appeared to be running low on ammunition, but that was no advantage to the picket line, as the enemy started chocking their cannons with anything they could find, including 12-foot railroad ties.  Sensing the Union line was collapsing, they pressed in harder.  Adam caught sight of a large body of infantry moving to their right and then saw the same to his left, but a rain of shrapnel also seemed to come from the direction of the Chancellor House, now behind them.  “Hold your position!” Adam shouted as some of his men tried to avoid the shelling by moving the opposite direction, directly toward the enemy.

“Tell those fools to fire higher!” he heard Colonel Bostwick shouting to an aide, but it wasn’t Union artillery firing from behind them.  Unexpectedly, a Confederate officer appeared, waving a flag of truce.

“They surrendering, Lieutenant?” called Michael Bufford, as usual having positioned himself near Adam.

“I don’t think so, Private,” Adam said, “but hold your fire.”  He said it only moments before Colonel Bostwick’s identical order to the entire regiment.

As the enemy officer advanced, Dan grabbed Adam’s forearm.  “Get close,” he whispered.  “Try to find out what’s up.”

“Yes, sir,” Adam said, just as softly and moved toward the clearing where a tall, rough-looking man in gray stood talking to Colonel Bostwick.

What he heard shocked him, for it was a suggestion that they surrender to avoid loss of life.  “You are surrounded, sir,” the rebel officer said.

“I do not see it, sir,” Colonel Bostwick said.

“Very well.  Give me time to get away.”  Adam thought he heard a hint of regret in the tall man’s voice that gave his original message the ring of truth and his heart sank.  If they were, indeed, encircled by Confederate forces, their future was, at best, bleak.  He started to report back to Dan, but when he heard the colonel order Lieutenant-Colonel Merwin to investigate the situation, he decided to wait.

It didn’t take long for the ugly truth to emerge.  “We’re trapped, sir,” Merwin reported, “but we can force our way through.”

Adam stared at the man as if he’d lost his mind.  At this point their small regiment probably numbered no more than 350 men, officers included, while Robert E. Lee had thousands to send against them.  He tasted blood as he bit his lower lip in anticipation of Bostwick’s answer to the brave, but impractical suggestion.

“Wait one moment!” Bostwick called to the retiring Confederate officer, and Adam saw the tall man stop.  He couldn’t hear the Union officers as they huddled together to discuss their options, but he waited with almost suspended breath.  Then the huddle broke and Bostwick called to a nearby sergeant for a white handkerchief.

At that point Adam took off.  “We’re surrounded,” he reported to Dan.  “We’re going to surrender.”

For a single moment Dan looked as stricken as Adam felt.  Then he took a deep breath and nodded.  “Get the men prepared,” he said, “as quietly as possible . . . and tell them to render their knapsacks and weapons unusable.  Leave nothing for the comfort of our enemies!”  It was an act of defiance with which Adam heartily concurred.  There wasn’t much time, so he had the men render their rifles unusable by tossing them in a small rivulet nearby.  Seeing Private Bufford thrusting a knife into the waistband of his pants, he confiscated it.  “They’ll search you first thing, Private,” he scolded, “and make it worse for you than if you hadn’t tried a fool stunt like this.”

“I might get one of them first,” Bufford declared bitterly.

“Let them have their one,” Adam said with a quizzical smile.  “We’ll come out ahead, so long as we still have you.”  It was the closest thing to a commendation he’d ever given the soldier, and he saw Bufford’s shoulders square at the words and his face show a determination to be worthy of them.

Adam had no idea how long they stood in that wooded ravine.  Time stood still as the soldiers waited, confused by how they’d found themselves in this predicament, edgy about what lay ahead.  The Georgia lieutenant to whom they’d been consigned for transport lined them up in no particular order, so Adam tugged Bufford into line next to him.  Later, he wondered why.  Perhaps to protect the private from any further foolishness, but if he were honest, perhaps it equally arose from the natural desire to be near someone he knew when facing an unknown future.  Lieutenant Worthington was deliberately keeping himself separated from Adam, probably in hopes that if ill fate overcame one of them, the other would be spared to care for the men of their company.  Bufford, poor a soldier as he’d often seemed to be, was the only one of Adam’s original tentmates still here, and Adam was determined to see him safely through to wherever they were going.  Then, for the first time, the truth hit him with a jolt.  He might not know the name of their destination, but he knew where they were going—to a Rebel prison.

 

Chapter 8

Prisoner of War

Leaving the ravine, the men of the 27^th Connecticut soon found themselves marching toward the Confederate battlefield headquarters.  As soon as they arrived, they were stripped of almost all but the clothes on their backs.  Those who’d held onto knapsacks, rubber blankets and shelter tents had them confiscated, and some, Private Bufford among them, even lost their shoes to the many barefoot men clad in tattered butternut.  Though Adam, perhaps by grace of his officer’s status, was allowed to keep his ill-fitting brogans, he’d already divested himself of any extra weight at the beginning of their march.  He had, however, managed to keep his canteen, and from the moment it was taken, all he could think of was water, while he stood in line to be registered, giving name, regiment and rank.

While this processing was still going on, an officer rode up, and though he wore a simple uniform, with no indication of rank, it was obvious from the cheers that greeted him that he was a man of distinction.  “Who’s that, you reckon?” an awed Private Bufford asked.

Staring transfixed at the man’s calm, but careworn countenance as he rode past without seeming to notice either the prisoners or the shouts of his own men, somehow Adam knew.  “That, Private, is General Robert E. Lee, unless I miss my guess.”

“Oh, Lordy,” Bufford moaned.  “The big mucky-muck hisself?  Is he gonna escort us to their stinkin’ prison?”

Adam laughed, and as he did, both his personal fears and his awe at seeing the commander of the Army of Northern Virginia fell away.  “I’m sure someone will,” he countered, “but probably not the big mucky-muck himself.  As the Scripture advises, soldier, try not to think of yourself more highly than you ought.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll try,” the private said with such seriousness that Adam again found himself grinning, for a brief moment forgetting the daunting situation they both were facing.

The registration completed, the 27^th Connecticut and isolated members of other units were again lined up and, with a sizable force guarding them, headed south, passing now emptied breastworks and artillery-shattered trees.  They marched steadily, halting only to allow the Confederate wounded passage to the rear ahead of them, and by dusk Adam estimated that they had covered ten or so miles before being ordered to stop at the edge of a town called Spotsylvania.

Thankfully, most of the citizens were in their homes, eating supper if the aromas wafting on the spring breeze were any indication.  Torture to men who hadn’t eaten since breakfast and had to depend for their next meal on the goodwill of men who bore them none.  At least, due to the hour, they weren’t subjected to too many taunts, although several hollered greetings like, “Why’d you come down here, Billy Blue?  We don’t need the likes of you!”  Sorely tempted to tell the rustic poet exactly how little he wanted to be “down here,” Adam, determined to be a good example for his men, set his lips in a taut line and said nothing.  They were herded into an enclosure surrounding the courthouse, where they stretched out on the cold ground, without benefit of either blankets or fire, but not one of the exhausted men had any difficulty falling asleep.

The next morning they were roughly ordered to their feet, and with nothing but a small ration of water, they soon found themselves on the march again, in an easterly direction this time.  “Maybe they’s gonna drown us in the ocean,” Private Bufford groused.

A Rebel guard marching nearby hooted.  “Fine idea, Yank!  I’ll pass it up to General Lee.”

“Mind sharing where we’re really headed, sir?” Adam asked, as respectfully as he could in hopes of getting a straight answer.

It worked.  “Guinea Station,” the guard said.

Adam pressed his luck.  “And then by rail?”

“You bein’ an officer, maybe.”  Then the guard gave Bufford’s bare feet a mocking grin.  “You probably gonna take shank’s mare all the way to Richmond.”

The private blanched, but managed to say nothing until the guard had moved down the line, no doubt to harass some other miserable prisoner.  Then, eyes wide with fear, Bufford croaked out, “Richmond?  They really gonna take us clean to their stinkin’ capital?”

“Might be wiser to quit calling everything about them stinkin’, Private.  I doubt we smell much better ourselves,” Adam advised.

“Man’s got a right to his opinion, sir,” Bufford defended himself stoutly.

“Yes,” Adam agreed, drawing out the word, “but they’ve probably got a hundred ways to make you pay for it.  You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, remember?”

“But it’s a heap more pleasurable to spoon vinegar into Johnny Reb than honey, sir!”

“Maybe so,” Adam agreed with a grin, “but there’s another proverb . . . something about not biting the hand that feeds you, and I, for one, am getting sort of hungry.”

Bufford grinned back, humor for the moment restored.

A ten-mile march brought them to Guinea’s Station, a small town on the Richmond and Fredericksburg Railroad and, more importantly, a supply depot for Lee’s army.  It also appeared to be a general gathering point for prisoners, but their hopes for a filling meal faded when they were herded into a fenced area around the courthouse, as it became apparent the hungry Rebels had nothing to share.

A few of their own men had some squares of hardtack left, and handed them out generously, but with no coffee to soften them, only the starving chose to gnaw on the rock-hard rations.  Adam tried breaking off a smaller piece of the single square he’d been given and letting it sit in his mouth for a few minutes, but it wasn’t much softer.  Handing the rest to Bufford, he decided no supper would suit him just as well, at least this first night.  How many nights he’d have to make the choice between hunger or the health of his sturdy teeth was a question even his considerable mathematical prowess couldn’t resolve.  Would the diet in prison be any easier to swallow than what they’d had on the march to it?  Unknowable, but if they really were taking the train to Richmond, he’d find out soon enough.

With no blankets supplied, he wrapped his arms around himself and stretched out on the cooling ground as the sun descended.  The Rebs had permitted them to build a few small fires, but the warmth didn’t reach far.  Though the situation wasn’t nearly as grim, it reminded him of that awful night he’d spent lying on the battlefield at Fredericksburg, when he’d stripped the dead of their coats for warmth.  No dead here to strip, thank God.  All the men here were still living, and he welcomed the warm bodies lying close to him on either side more than any coat.

As the darkness grew deeper and conversation faded into soft snores all around him, less welcome thoughts tore at him with sharp talons.  The first brought only a soft sting of regret: I should have listened to you, Pa, and kept out of eastern conflicts.  In its wake came a sharper talon, attached to Elizabeth’s well-groomed hand.  Would she regret leaving him, now that he had sacrificed his freedom for his country?  Doubtful.  Maybe she’d feel even gladder, more justified in spurning an ill-fed, increasingly filthy prisoner of war!  After all, she’d been so proud of his shiny blue uniform back in New Haven, and it was in shabby shape now.  Perhaps, fashion was all that mattered to her.  With a shudder, he thrust out the taunting thoughts and tried to sleep, but sleep was sporadic and the thoughts stabbed their way in again and again.

The camp of prisoners began to stir early Tuesday morning, and Private Bufford quickly asked permission to “go amongst them.”

Remembering the private’s propensity for rooting out gossip, Adam agreed at once.  “Sure.  Find out what you can.”  With a grin Bufford took off.

Adam was almost ready to think the man had deserted by the time he returned, but Bufford was bubbling over with excitement.  “Guess who’s lying wounded in that house over yonder,” he said, pointing.

“A Confederate officer?” Adam surmised with a maddening arch of his eyebrow.

Bufford flapped a derogatory hand.  “Anyone could’ve guessed that, but not just any Reb officer, lieutenant!”  His voice dropped to a whisper as he passed on what he clearly thought was news of great import.  “It’s Stonewall Jackson hisself!  Lost an arm, I hear, and like to lose his life.  That’s one Reb that ain’t gonna trouble us no more!”

Adam gave a small shudder.  Jackson was an enemy, of course and the strategist behind the devastating attack on the Union right their second day at Chancellorsville, according to the Georgian guards who’d ushered them here.  His loss to the Confederate Army would be a great advantage to the North.  Still, though he’d killed numbers of nameless enemy soldiers in battle, Adam couldn’t rejoice in any specific man’s death or even his debilitating injury.  “Anything else?” Adam asked to cover his less-than-enthusiastic reception of Bufford’s news.

Bufford grinned broadly.  “Saved the best for last.  They are gonna feed us!  Probably any time now, and with all that food comin’ in by rail, it’s likely to be pretty good, huh?”

“Probably going to save the best for their generals,” Adam said dryly, but it was accompanied by a small grin that told the private he was teasing.

“Well, I’m hopin’ for the best,” Bufford said.  “Fresh bread, even if it’s cornbread, this bein’ the South, and maybe some beef or pork like we had back in Fredericksburg.”

“One can hope,” Adam said.  His own hopes were a little less optimistic, but even bacon and hardtack, with some coffee to soak it in, would be welcome at this point.

“Fall in for rations!”  The cry was met with cheers from the hungry Union soldiers.  Adam organized his men into line and took his place at the end of the queue.  He wasn’t too surprised, however, to see Michael Bufford hang back to take the spot just in front of him.

“Thought you were hungry, Private,” Adam said.

“No more’n you, sir,” Bufford replied, giving the lazy salute Adam was used to seeing in winter camp on the eastern side of the Rappahannock.

“Well, about one place hungrier,” Adam teased.

“Reckon we could hope for coffee?”

“Doubtful.”  Adam shook his head, rethinking his earlier hopes.  “If you remember, the Rebs traded tobacco for coffee from us last winter.  They’re not likely to share it with prisoners when they’re short themselves.”

“Probably not,” Bufford agreed with an elongated sigh.  “Reckon I can make do on cornbread and pork.”

Incoherent grumbles coming down the line toward them soon made both men reevaluate their chances of even those diminished hopes, but neither could have anticipated what actually awaited them at the distribution point.  “Three pints of flour!” Bufford sputtered as he and Adam walked away with their so-called rations.  “What we ‘sposed to do with that?”

“I don’t see but one alternative, Private,” Adam ventured with a scowl.  “Mix it with some water and bake it over the fire.”  Thankfully, most of the men had not yet smothered their small ones from the night before, although the sun was already beginning to bake them under increasingly intense rays.  Adam found a dry stick on the ground and used it to mix the flour with water in the cup he’d been allowed to keep.  Then, he wrapped the stiff mixture around the wood and held it to the heat.  He offered Bufford first taste of the bread that was more dried than baked.  “Well?” he asked.  “How is it?”

“Wouldn’t feed it to pigs back home,” Bufford said.  “Uh, no offense to your cookin’, sir.”

“None taken,” Adam said.  “I’m no Hop Sing.”

“Sir?”

“Our cook back home.”  Wondering if even Hop Sing could make something edible out of what was on hand, Adam risked a bite.  Seeing the private watching for his reaction, he muttered dryly, “Oink-oink.”  The meal was, indeed, worthy only of pigs.  As it was all they had, however, both men dried their entire ration over the fire, lest they not have one later, ate enough to stave off starvation and saved the rest for supper.

It was well they did, for that afternoon, the darkening skies rolled with thunder, and driving rain put out all the fires.  At first, the soldiers welcomed the cooling shower after being broiled under the blistering sun all day.  When it continued all night and into the next day, however, their rain-drenched bodies shivered in the blustery wind.

*****

After the three most miserable days of his enlistment, Adam stood in his still-damp uniform, as the enlisted men were separated from the officers.  He stayed close to Bufford as long as he could, but he was finally ordered into the line of men headed for the railcars.  “No flouting their orders, Private,” he urged during their last moments together, and then he pressed a hand to Bufford’s shoulder, and in remembrance of the early days in New Haven when they had shared the same rank, he said softly, “Take care, Michael, and you’ll come through this.”

Bufford gave him a tight-lipped nod, but as he marched away, he looked back over his shoulder at his second lieutenant, and seeing the fear in his eyes, Adam sent him a bolstering smile.  As soon as the private turned away, however, it faded, for Adam felt the same dread shivering up his spine.

The long queue of officers inched toward the railcars.  As he grew closer, Adam realized theirs would be no journey of comfort, such as he’d known while traveling east by rail in quest of his collegiate dreams.  No sleeping cars here, nor even one with seats; instead, he was herded into a boxcar normally used to haul supplies for the Army of Northern Virginia.  A wry smile touched his lips as he mused that “herded” was, indeed, the right word, for this container was more suited to cattle than human beings.  In fact, judging by the smell, it might have previously been used for that very purpose.

He mounted the crate placed below the sliding door in the side of the car and shook his head ruefully.  First herded and now mounting.  Judging by the words his own thoughts selected, the Rebels had already reduced them to the status of beasts.  He half expected they’d be pouring swill into troughs for them soon.  And I just might eat it, he mused.  He was hungry enough, for he’d still had nothing but that campfire-baked flour both he and Private Bufford had dubbed not fit for pigs.

Briefly, he remained by the door, reaching down to help other officers into the car, but he soon found himself pushed to the interior by the sheer number of men entering.  When they were packed wall to wall—“Like sardines,” he heard the captain of another company comment—the door was shut and the interior plunged into near darkness.  The only light came through the sides high above them, where a few boards had been removed.  Even beasts on the hoof need a bit of ventilation, I suppose, he pondered, but doubting the observation would benefit anyone else, he kept it to himself.

For several minutes they stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the darkness, muttering about when they’d leave, how long the journey would be, what would await them at its end and other unanswerable questions.  Finally, some more practical officer called out, “Sit down, men, if you can find room.  It’s likely to be a long wait and a longer trip, and once this train starts moving, you won’t want to stand all the way to Richmond.”  It wasn’t one of Adam’s commanding officers, nor for all he knew, even one from his own regiment, but he saw the wisdom in those words and quickly complied.  He introduced himself to the man on his left and his right, figuring they’d have ample opportunity to share their entire life histories during the rail trip, if, indeed, it ever got started.

When he began to share his own story, he found more than those two men leaning in to listen.  A man from the far West was a rarity in the Army of the Potomac, so he had tales to tell that were different from those of eastern upbringing.  Though his throat grew parched, he was willing to provide what help he could in whiling away the seemingly interminable wait for the train to start.  Suddenly, with a jolt that toppled the few men left standing, the train started to move, and they were on their way, to God only knew what fate at journey’s end.

The rattling of the wheels propelled them with a rhythm that, at first, lulled Adam to sleep, but with each hour that passed, the enclosed railcar grew more stifling, the rising sun making the air hotter, more humid and, worst of all, fetid, both from the odor of the sweltering bodies and the acrid stench arising from the open bucket in one corner provided for the prisoners to relieve themselves.  The journey was too long for any of them to resist adding to its contents, so as the hours passed the stench only grew fouler, the air more breathless.

The train paused at a few stations along the route, for what reason Adam couldn’t fathom since none of the passengers would be getting off, and presumably, none would be boarding this far from the battleground.  To take on fuel or water, he supposed, though he felt like the only purpose was to give civilians along the route an opportunity to shout abuse at the closed cars and hurl putrid rubbish against them.  At first, he wondered what the supposedly starving southerners would be willing to sacrifice to that purpose, but then shuddered to think such leavings might become their steady diet in prison.  Worse than pig swill, he thought with wrinkled nose, and, hot as it was, he shivered, wondering whether he’d soon consider himself lucky to get it.

Peering through a wide crack in his railcar, Adam saw a diminutive Virginia woman perched on a hitching post outside a depot, waving a Confederate flag and yelling in a most unladylike manner, “Have you got Old Abe with you, you cursed rascals?”

It was late evening when the train arrived in the capital of the Confederacy, its occupants weary and ill-prepared to face new challenges, but predictably, that is what met them.  The side doors opened, one by one, and the bedraggled officers, shirts soaked with sweat, descended to derisive hoots from the populace, who apparently thought greeting them worth delaying their own dinners.

As he stepped down into what he would later learn was Broad Street, Adam heard the usual catcalls, with a few variations specific to the final destination.  “Well, you got here, did ya?” one knee-slapping old man cackled.  “Heard y’all wanted to see Richmond.  How ya like the place?”

“Most picturesque,” Adam observed wryly.

“I doubt he knows the word, college boy,” said a voice behind him.

Adam turned and smiled with relief into the face of his fellow lieutenant, Dan Worthington. “Where’ve you been hiding?” he asked.

“Car behind yours, I think,” Dan said.  “I spotted you when I got off that blasted train and have been making my way toward you ever since, dodging cabbage missiles all the way.”

“Are you sure they’re cabbage?” Adam asked waggishly.

“Uh, not entirely,” Dan admitted with a wrinkle of his nose.  “Let’s stick together, now that there are no enlisted men to see to.”

“Like glue,” Adam agreed, glad to have a trusted friend with whom to face the unknowable future.

The hoots and hollers of the populace following them all the way, they were herded into lines, marched about three blocks and halted in front of a dark brick building, three stories high.  The bottom third of it was whitewashed and above its entrance a board was painted in large black letters: A. Libby and Sons, Ship Chandlers and Groceries.  “Ironic,” Adam muttered.

“Hmm?” Dan queried.

“My father was a ship’s chandler,” Adam said. Pa!  The thought stabbed, sharp as a dagger.  For the first time, Adam was grateful for the slowness of mail back to Nevada, because it would devastate his father to learn that he’d been taken prisoner.  And his little brothers.  Maybe Pa’d keep it from them.  After all, how could either of them, Little Joe especially, understand what it meant to be a prisoner of war when their older brother didn’t really understand it himself?   He was about to learn, though.

One by one, they filed through the door of the former mercantile, down a narrow, white hall and into a receiving office, where they were rigorously searched for weapons and any remaining valuables.  Having already divested himself of his rifle and pistol, Adam had little to turn over except a few greenbacks and a jackknife.  With great reluctance, however, he handed over the pictures of his family that he carried with him constantly, even in battle.

“You sure that’s all you got?” demanded a heavy-set clerk about Adam’s age.  “You ain’t got nothin’ hid, in your shoes, maybe?”

“No, sir,” Adam said, resenting the implication, but figuring nothing was to be gained by giving a surly answer.

The clerk snickered as he held the few greenbacks Adam had turned in under his nose.  “You’ll not be buying many extras to go with your rations, then.  You can request them back if you should need to purchase something during your stay here.”  He looked at the ambrotypes of a man and two small boys and apparently decided the Confederacy had no use for them.  Holding them toward Adam, he said, “Reckon you can keep these.”  He also handed back Adam’s small knife.  “You’ll need that for eatin’,” the officer sneered.  He then demanded Adam’s name, rank and regiment and recorded them in a tally book before motioning him on and turning to the next man in line.  So far, nothing worse than he had experienced since his first capture by the enemy, and here, at least, he would have shelter from the elements, and eventually, hopefully . . . food.

Along with the other new prisoners, he was lined up and with two guards preceding them and others behind, began to climb two flights of stairs.  Arriving at the landing on the third floor, they faced a solid door.  Their accompanying guards drew back the heavy bolts securing it and then took position on either side of the opening, pointing their bayonets at the space between.  “Git in, trash,” one said.

All around him, Adam heard the same sharp intake of breath he himself had taken.  Clearly, the guards’ posture was meant to intimidate, to instill fear.  Well, he wouldn’t have it!  Nor, with thoughts of Pa fresh in his mind, would he needlessly antagonize men holding sharp blades barely two inches from his ribs.  With head held high but eyes straight and steady, he passed through the two-man gauntlet, only releasing the breath he held when he moved into a large, open space.

It wasn’t open for long.  The guards had no sooner slammed and bolted the door behind them than a cry of “Fresh fish!” went up, and the new prisoners found themselves surrounded by the chamber’s previous occupants.  “Let me take your luggage and show you to your room,” one offered as if he were a bellboy at a first-rate hotel.  Stunned, Adam looked around the open space.  Were there actually rooms for them somewhere or, more likely, cells?

“Hey! Keep your hands out of that fresh fish’s pockets!” another hollered, and Adam automatically reached for his pocket, although he had little left to protect.  Hoots of laughter told him he and the other newcomers were being ribbed.  As initiations went, it was mild compared to what he’d endured on entering his freshman society back at Yale, so he laughed.  Welcomed, then, with warm claps on the back, he and all the other “fresh fish” were surrounded with clamors for news of the outside world, in particular how the war was going and how soon Union troops might reach Richmond and liberate them.

“Has Hooker got ‘em on the run?” a voice in a distant corner called.

“Anything but!” one of the fresh fish cried back, and for a moment the hush of dashed hopes fell over the room.

Adam took advantage of the brief silence to look around his new quarters, such as they were.  With his architect’s eye, he estimated the oblong room’s length at 90 feet and its width about 45.  The low ceiling was supported by rough, whitewashed beams, and the walls were unplastered.  On the side overlooking the street were five square windows, fitted with flat bars.  Their light only penetrated about 25 feet, leaving the middle of the room quite dark.  Its furnishings were literally none: not a cot to sleep on, nor a chair or bench, not even an empty crate to rest their weary bones.  “I can’t say much for the accommodations at Hotel Libby,” he said to Dan.

“Oh, this is only the lobby,” Dan quipped.  “The feather beds are in the luxury suites upstairs.”

“We’re on the top floor,” Adam observed dryly, to which Dan could only give a shrug and a sour smile.   As Adam walked further into the room, he almost gagged and instinctively brought his arm across his face to cover his mouth and nostrils.  Clean as the walls and floor appeared, the stench emanating from the back part of the room was stifling.  “I believe I’ve located the latrines,” he wryly informed Dan.

“Repulsive,” Dan muttered back, “but I may have to take advantage of them.”

“I’ll go with you,” Adam said, “in case you pass out and need someone to pull you back into fresher air, fresher being a relative term.”

“Very relative,” Dan said, following Adam’s example by clamping his hand over his nose.

The “latrine,” when they finally worked their way to it through the crowd of men turned out to be a primitive privy inside a rough wooden closet.  That explains the stench, Adam thought, but there was no other choice.  He entered, closed himself in and attended to his need, although he almost gagged on the fumes rising from the horse trough below that collected the excrement of the hundreds of men housed in a space suited for no more than a third of their number.   Finishing as quickly as he could, he pressed back through the mob with the same need.

Finding Dan again, he gave him a weak smile and said, “Ah, good to be back in the fresh air again.”

“Fresh being your idea of a joke, I assume?” Dan asked with a scowl.

“In the circumstances, I see no choice but to laugh or cry, and of the two, I prefer laughter,” Adam said.  “In fact, I may become so adept at it by the time this is over that I might consider taking up comedy on stage as my new profession.”

“Well, here’s a challenge for you, my friend,” Dan said.  “I’m told we’ve arrived too late for evening rations, so there’ll be nothing to eat until after roll call tomorrow morning, and then we’ll feast on, maybe, half a small loaf of bread and, if we’re lucky, a quarter pound of meat, which I am reliably informed comes from mules.  I eagerly await your comedic take on that!”

Adam shuddered.  “I’m still a beginner, and that’s more challenge than I care to tackle on an empty stomach.”

“If that’s your best effort, you might want to seriously reconsider that career change, chum, because I frankly see no future in it for you.”

“Perhaps not,” Adam conceded, for his empty belly rumbled about that time, and he felt too dismal to even attempt a joke.

Dan and Adam slowly made their way around the room, searching for other officers of the 27^th Connecticut.  Although unacquainted with many of the leaders of other companies, each felt a kinship with men from their own regiment, and it was obvious those men felt the same, for they tended to flock together, once they connected.

It was with special joy that, early on, they met Colonel Bostwick.  “Gravitate toward the center of the room, gentlemen,” he directed.  “It’s my understanding that, as the newest guests of this hostelry, we will take up residence there.”  Figures, Adam thought with significant displeasure.  The middle of the room was furthest from the fresh air and sunlight.  Naturally, prisoners who had been there before them would push the “fresh fish” into the least ventilated and darkest part of the room.  Even at high noon, reading there would strain their eyes . . . if we had anything to read, Adam mused morosely.  Whatever would they do to pass the long hours of each day?

Beside him, he heard Dan give a long, exasperated sigh.  “Well, there’s no help for it,” the first lieutenant said to his second.  “Since I cannot stand much longer, we might as well test out the sofa cushions.”

“You are a worse comedian than I, sir,” Adam grunted.

“Sit down,” Dan said tersely, “and if I have to make it an order, I will.”

“After you, sir.”

Dan folded onto the floor, setting the proper example for his subordinate.  Adam followed suit, frowning at the sawdust sprinkled over the surface.  “These, I assume, are the feather beds you mentioned before?”

Dan snorted, but before he could say anything, one of the earlier residents of Libby cackled.  “You should have seen them before they heard you were coming and gave everything a fresh coat of whitewash.  When I first got here, you could still smell the fish, hemp and tobacco old Luther Libby sold here, and the floors were covered with some sort of black slime, whose make-up I could not bring myself to investigate.”

“What makes us so special?” Adam asked with a skeptical arch of his eyebrow.

The other man shrugged.  “Don’t know, except I heard they were expectin’ a real crowd from the latest battle.  Maybe they figured they either cleaned the place before you got here or gave up all hope of keepin’ anyone alive and out of the hospital.  Nothin’ but the floor to sleep on, but at least for now, it’s clean—mostly.”

“Mostly” about described it, but Adam was grateful for small blessings.  Fish-and-tobacco-scented slime would have made their “feather mattresses” unbearable, though hundreds had borne it before them, he suddenly realized.  He was so thoroughly exhausted he didn’t even notice Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Merwin of his own regiment until he stood over them.  Then, like Dan, he tried to scramble to his feet, only to have his legs crumble beneath him and fall on his rear end.

“Don’t get up, gentlemen,” Merwin said.  “We’re all too tired to stand on ceremony tonight.  I’m only here to offer you your allotment of blankets, which I’m sorry to say will be your only bedding for the night.”

“Grateful to have it, sir,” Dan said, saluting.

“Indeed.”  Adam copied the gesture of respect, strange as it felt to be making it from a seated position.

Returning the salute, Merwin said, “Lights out at nine sharp, which will be any moment, so get yourselves situated while you can.   Roll call at seven in the morning.  As to how the sleeping arrangements are managed in so crowded a space, just follow the lead of those who became guests of Hotel de Libby before us.

Dan and Adam exchanged half-hearted grins.  Apparently, they weren’t the only ones trying to deal with the luxury accommodations through humor.  Grins quickly turned to grimaces when they saw how the veteran prisoners bedded down.  Head to toe, they lay in rows, each man between two others, all on their right sides, like spoons nestled in a drawer.  How on earth were they to sleep, Adam wondered, packed like sardines in a can without so much as room to turn over?

Suddenly, a shout sounded across the room: “Nine o’clock.  Post No. 1 and all’s well.  Lights out there, Yanks.  Damn you, lights out!”  From post to post the shouts of the guards resounded as one by one, tallow candles on the walls were snuffed out and darkness, broken only by the faint light of the moon, descended.

Adam tried to settle his mind, but it just wouldn’t rest.  Tired as his body was, his mind had too much to absorb.  Predictably, along with the flood of new information, came unwelcome pictures of Elizabeth, turning up her pert little nose at the squalor of his accommodations and, perhaps more so, of Adam’s bedraggled state.  She did so love a man in a crisp new uniform of Union blue.  He shuddered to think what his would look and smell like by the time he got out of this fine hotel!

The recurrent thoughts kept him awake long enough to hear some designated soldier order, “Spoon over.”  Then, as one, the entire roomful of men turned onto their left sides.  With no thoughts of treacherous women to keep him awake, Dan slept on until Adam nudged him and told him to turn over.

“Diabolical system,” Dan muttered as he complied.  Silently, Adam agreed, but it was probably the best that could be devised under the circumstances, and the spoons would have gotten very sore, indeed, if forced to spend the entire night on one side.  He pulled the blankets closer around him and again tried to sleep.  Again came the unwelcome visitation of Elizabeth, but this time he tersely muttered, “Be gone!” and turned his thoughts deliberately to images of Pa and Hoss and Little Joe and, to counteract the odor of hundreds of sweating men, the fresh pine scent of the Ponderosa.  Eventually he managed to drop off, although it felt like only seconds before he once again heard the command to spoon over.

*****

He woke, groggy, stiff and sore from the night on the hard floor.  Though he’d spent many nights back home with only a bedroll between him and bare ground, earth was a soft cushion, compared to the unyielding wooden planks.  The assurance from the guards every half hour that “All’s well” hadn’t helped, either.  Maybe it wasn’t intended to, as if he needed the reminder that he was a prisoner.  Not sure whether he was allowed to rise before the rest of the spoons or even if it was practicable in such close quarters, he lay still.  There was barely light to see anything in the center of the room, but he pulled from his pocket the picture of his family and squinted to see each face whose memory had helped him through the night.  “Thanks,” he whispered and put them away, close to his heart.

It wasn’t long, however, before men were stirring all around him, and almost as one, they stood and began to stretch and mill about, working out the kinks from their night’s “rest.”  About an hour later, the clerk who had enrolled him on his arrival entered the room, accompanied by two guards loaded with revolvers.  One, brandishing a Bowie knife better than a foot long, hollered out, “Git in yo’ lines!”  At a deliberate dawdle, the Union prisoners began to crowd into four columns, stretching from front to back of the room and filling the half nearest the windows.

Since they had been watching the veteran prisoners to learn the routine, Adam and Dan were far back in the line.  Adam, in particular, was eager to pass by the windows, pull in a breath of fresh air and take another look at the street below them.  The air, when he reached that goal wasn’t much fresher, and all he could see was an open lot across the street, with a small church to the left and a warehouse similar to the one he was in on the far side.

“Better step back,” he heard from the man behind him.  When he glanced questioningly over his shoulder, he saw the same man who had told him about the recent whitewashing of the walls.  “It’s against the rules, and sometimes the guards down there like to do a little target practice, although they tend to be more tolerant during roll call.”  He grinned.  “Wouldn’t want to be them if they hit a guard, instead of one of us.”

“View isn’t worth much anyway,” Adam said, once he’d taken a step away from the windows.  “Thanks for the advice, Captain.”

The man nodded.  “Soon you’ll be the old cod offering fresh fish advice, and, hopefully, I’ll be out of here.”

“Exchanged?” Adam asked, his own hopes rising.  “How long does that take, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Ask anything you like, Lieutenant.  Rules say within ten days, but I’m told it can take up to thirty, bureaucracy being what it sometimes is.”  He skewed a grin at Adam as he offered an example.  “I don’t suppose your pay is up to date?”

“Far from,” Adam admitted.  “Better under Hooker than Burnside, but somehow still always late.”  He thought for a moment of the family pictures inside his uniform and realized just how long it had been since he’d seen a letter from home.  He was sure Pa hadn’t been lax in writing, but as the captain had said, the inevitable slowness of government bureaucracy had kept him from receiving anything for weeks.  “Any chance breakfast will be better than the view?” he asked, mostly to cover the emotion thoughts of home welled up within him.

“Not even up to its value, I’m afraid,” his informant said with a sigh, “but you’ll get used to it.”

“By the time I’m an old cod with hopes of leaving soon?” Adam chuckled.

“About that time, yes,” the captain said.  Then, leaning close to Adam’s ear, he added, “Best leave off conversation for now.  A nasty piece of work is our Eramus Ross, and we’re close enough to the front of the line now to attract unwanted attention, if you take my meaning.”

“I do,” Adam said with a glance at the front of the room, now only two rows of prisoners ahead of him.  When his turn came, he gave his name to Ross, the clerk who had originally enrolled him, and passed to the left, as he’d seen others do.  It seemed odd to him, though, that they were expected to stand there, crowded into half a room, until all the prisoners had passed by the clerk.

Adam lifted an inquiring eyebrow when the last prisoner was registered for the day.  “Breakfast now, I presume?”

“Such as it is,” his informant responded.  “We took pity on your starving bellies this first day, but don’t be surprised if roll call lasts a bit longer some days.  Got to bedevil our friend Erasmus once in a while, just to keep him on his toes.”

“Such as it is” turned out to be a perfect description of the meager breakfast served a short time later.  The plate he was handed held a quarter pound of what the other prisoners called “Confederate beef.”  It was actually, as predicted, the flesh of a mule, a well-worked one with tough, stringy muscles, Adam decided as he chewed . . . and chewed . . . and chewed.  Bites from the small portion of bread issued with it made it somewhat more palatable and easier to swallow.  Dinner, served some four hours later, was identical, except the beef appeared to be from actual cows, boiled almost to oblivion, but more edible than breakfast, or so Adam told himself.  For supper, they had only the bread, but he was still grateful to get it.  After the scarcity he’d experienced since his capture, a few ounces of semi-decent bread seemed like a feast.

As he had surmised, the hardest part of the day was filling the long hours.  He tried to strike up conversations with a few of the veteran prisoners, but he’d never been a loquacious man, and once he’d asked about procedures here at Libby, there wasn’t much else to say.  Most of them hadn’t been prisoners that much longer than he had, so their battle experiences were largely the same as his, and no one seemed particularly interested in sharing anything more personal.  For that matter, neither did he.  He wanted, rather, to keep sacred topics like family and home as far from this place as possible, although he took out the ambrotypes several times, just to remind himself of what he wanted to get back to.

Salvation for Adam came when he heard the sound of singing coming from across the room and step-by-crowded-step made his way toward it.  After listening awhile, he worked up the boldness to ask whether he might join in on the songs he knew.

“Can you carry a tune?” asked one waggish songster.

“I’ve been told I can,” Adam replied, without a hint of braggadocio or false modesty, either, though irked enough by the taunt to have displayed both.

“Oh, give him a chance, Porter,” said another man.  “There’s always room for new blood in our choir, especially since we never know when we’ll lose the next member.”

“True enough,” said the man who seemed to be in charge.  “All right, lieutenant,” he said with a glance at Adam’s shoulder straps.  “Do you know Early One Morning?”

Adam acknowledged that he did, and after Major Porter intoned the starting pitch, he joined with the others.  At first, he sang only the melody; then growing bolder, he added the harmony, and other parts joined in.

“I guess you can sing!” Porter enthused.  “You can’t tell me you haven’t sung in a choir before, sir.”

“At Yale,” Adam admitted.

“Ah, a professional, then.”

“Scarcely that,” Adam demurred.

“Among this company, exactly that,” the major insisted.  “Rehearsals daily after dinner, once you’ve shared the delights of our table d’hôte.”

“Surpassed only by the delights of the bedlinens.”  Adam’s quip, dryly delivered, was returned with the laughter of mutual commiseration, and for the next hour, as they rehearsed, he felt he was among friends.  It wasn’t quite like singing in the chapel at Yale, but for a time that seemed all too brief, the glories of the grandest cathedral in America couldn’t compare.

“I see you’ve found a way to pass the time,” Dan observed when his mate returned later.

“Do you sing?” Adam asked.

“Good gracious, no!” Dan burst out.  “Couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Dan waved off the concern.  “I have other talents, not as showy as yours, but they’ll suffice.”

“Oh, what’s that?”

“You’ll see in time,” Dan said with a secretive smile.  “One of the ways I’ve found to occupy my time, however, is finding more uses for yours.”

Adam’s arched eyebrow gave him a wary expression.  “What have you done?” he rumbled with playful suspicion, for he had learned that his first lieutenant always had his best interest at heart.

“Oh, I overheard some men discussing possible courses to be taught here at Libby Academy, and I volunteered you as a professor.”

“What?  You didn’t!  Wait, is there such a thing or are you pulling my leg, sir?”

“Apparently, there is such a thing,” Dan said, chuckling.  “While you were busy singing, a man from another regiment came around, asking if I had any particular skills or areas of expertise to add to the curriculum.  I said no, of course, but he was delighted when I told him all you had to offer, college boy.”

“I’m a student, not a teacher,” Adam protested.

“No longer.  I’m looking at the new professor of mathematics,” Dan grinned with a triumphant grin, “and possibly draftsmanship.  You did say you’d worked as an architect last summer, didn’t you?”

“As a clerk!” Adam exploded.  “I did a few architectural renderings, but not enough to qualify as a teacher!”

“Oh, too bad,” Dan said, obviously not troubled at all by his mistake.  “You’ll have to settle for half salary, then.”

Perturbed as he was, Adam couldn’t keep his lips from twitching.  “Is there such a thing?” he asked again.

“In this case, no,” Dan laughed, “unless you take payment in Confederate beef.”

Adam grunted.  “Perish the thought.”

“You will take on the mathematics course, though, won’t you?” Dan asked.  “I’ve seen your skill at that, and I know I’d sign up for that course.”

“Of course,” Adam agreed readily.  He felt thoroughly competent in that subject, and it would give him something to fill the empty hours between the luxurious meals here . . . and, hopefully, take his mind off them.  “Thanks, Dan,” he said earnestly.  “Hopefully, it will be a short course, due to our imminent exchange, but in the interim, it just might preserve my sanity.”

“My sole goal,” Dan said.  “Sanity is a quality I prize in my subordinates.”

“Now, what can I come up with to preserve yours?” Adam queried, lifting the left corner of his mouth.  “I prize sanity in my commanders, as well, sir.”

“I’ve found my own way, sir.  Wait and see, and that is an order.”

*****

As early as he could the next morning, Adam lined up at the crowded water spigot to wash as best he could.  One thing he had not expected in a prison was running water, something he hadn’t experienced in the almost eight months he’d been a soldier or often before that, if he were honest.  Even at sophisticated Yale, he’d had to fetch water from a pump in the yard.  Here at Libby, it was available because more than thirty years earlier, the city of Richmond had laid iron pipes in areas where gravity would assist in raising water from the James River.  Since that river ran directly behind the old tobacco warehouse where they were now residing, Libby Prison was one of the fortunate places serviced by the pipes.  To Adam, it was a slice of heaven, and goodness only knew, Libby could use a hefty slice.  He hadn’t discovered the amenity until late yesterday and had elected to save washing until morning.  It was cold water, of course, and maybe he should have waited until the day heated up, but his longtime habit was to cleanse himself in the morning.  Besides, he had other things to do later: choir rehearsal and some sort of mathematics class to teach before that.

Breakfast was the same dismal repast as yesterday, but with better prospects for the hours ahead, Adam was able to face it.  As he chewed the stringy Confederate beef, he pondered what direction to take with his class.  He wasn’t sure what caliber of student he would have or what their interests might be.  For that matter, he wasn’t sure anyone would show up, with the exception of Dan.

One of the benefits of teaching the class was his assignment of “classroom” space.  Since what he was teaching might involve some writing, he was designated an area close to the light of a window.  When he questioned what he was supposed to use for paper and pens for his students, he was told, with a wry smile, not to worry; it would be provided.  “Just be sparing of it,” the reigning president of their academy said.  “It doesn’t come without cost.”  When Adam learned that each man in the class would have to provide his own supplies, purchased from the guards, he was more determined than ever to make his class worthwhile, since he knew those funds could, instead, be spent to supplement the ghastly prison diet.  For the same reason, he was also more convinced than ever that the class would be small.  Probably just me and Dan, he told himself to ward off disappointment.

Once the academy’s current leader had called out time to start, he took a deep bolstering breath and walked to his assigned “classroom,” with Dan tagging behind.  “I intend to be teacher’s pet,” his first lieutenant quipped.

“You may not have any competition,” Adam returned wryly.

“Oh, of course, I will,” Dan scolded.  “In fact, I believe it’s arriving now.”

Looking up, Adam saw five other men, each with pencil and paper in hand, moving toward him.  Drawing another long breath, he welcomed each with a handshake.  One, a second lieutenant like Adam himself, seemed a little hesitant as he took his teacher’s hand.  “I’ve got to ask you, sir, what kind of mathematics you plan to teach.”

“That’s to be determined,” Adam said.  “I need to know from each of you what your background in the subject is and what you feel would most benefit you in the time we have together.  When we’ve reached a consensus on that, we’ll begin.”

“So, no real work today, then?” another man asked with a naughty twinkle in his eye.

“Some, I hope,” Adam replied.  “After all, I assume most of you will be exchanged before I am, so I want to give you a fair return for your money.”

“Money?” the second lieutenant croaked.  “I didn’t know there was a charge.”

Adam laughed lightly, hoping to put the man, no older than he, at ease.  “I was referring to the supplies you’ve already purchased.  I fully appreciate that those funds could have been used for some Libby luxuries . . . like, perhaps, a potato or onion.”  Or a newspaper, he thought, since, for him, food for thought was always more important than anything he might put in his mouth.

Goodhearted groans met this reminder of the limits of the table at Libby.  “I always knew professors had a cruel streak,” a captain said with a shake of his head.

“Shall we begin to explore what you know and what you wish to learn?” Adam suggested.  “Take a seat, gentlemen.”

The students folded onto the floor, most sitting with legs crossed, Indian style, and Adam began his inventory of their abilities and desires.  Most seemed interested in learning more about algebra, so he started with a few basics and set a simple problem as homework.  “Memorize it,” he suggested.  “Then you can ponder it, even in shallow light, and write out your solution later, if needed.”

Class ended after an hour, and Adam received the thanks of his students, who said it was exactly what they needed.  All but one.  His fellow second lieutenant remained behind and said, “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think I’ll be able to keep up.”

Adam rested a hand on the slumped shoulder.  “If you can’t, I’ll tutor you separately at whatever level you need.  Any progress you make will be an asset to you in the world outside this place, which I’m sure you’ll be exchanged to rejoin soon.”  Sooner than me, anyway, Adam mused, since he was obviously one of the freshest fish inside Libby’s walls.

The man looked relieved, and his head bobbed eagerly.  “Yes, sir, that’s my hope.  I’ll try this one, at least.”  He waved his paper, on which he’d written down the problem Adam had set them.

“You’ll get it,” Adam said to bolster his student’s confidence.  “See you tomorrow, same time.”

“Monday, sir,” the other corrected.  “No class on the Sabbath.”

“Of course,” Adam responded.  “I still have much to learn myself.”

“Good to know!” Dan chuckled, stepping toward them.  He had held back before to allow the other two men what small degree of privacy he could grant anyone in this crowded room.  Taking the superior officer’s approach as a dismissal, the other man drifted away.

“You, sir, should concentrate on how much you have to learn,” Adam snorted, “and when it comes to algebra . . .”

“I can come to you for special tutoring, too, can’t I?”  A playful smirk slid across Dan’s face.

Adam rolled his eyes.  “You won’t need it.  You have the background you need to absorb a new subject, unlike Roberts, who genuinely lacks it.”

“Yes,” Dan readily agreed to the obvious.  “Good of you to offer him the tutoring.”

Adam shrugged.  “It so happens I have time in my busy schedule.”

After the expected meal of boiled beef and bread, he gladly escaped into the pleasures of song once again.  Rehearsal was more rigorous and lasted a little longer than the day before, no doubt due to tonight’s scheduled performance.  “Rest your voices until then,” the director advised in concluding their session.

As the men began to leave, he motioned Adam to his side.  “Do you think you’ll be ready to join us for this evening’s performance, Lieutenant?  I realize you’ve had little rehearsal time, but you seem to be picking up the songs quite quickly.”

“I knew several already,” Adam replied, “ and I feel confident I can manage the others.”

“Good, good.  We’ll be in full voice, then.”

Adam saluted and was just about to move away and try to find something, anything, to take up the hours until supper, when he heard a commotion in the street below.  He couldn’t resist sidling over to the window to satisfy his curiosity.

“Careful, Lieutenant,” Major Porter warned.  “We can’t afford to lose one of our best voices for the concert tonight.”

Adam flushed at the praise, but remained where he was.  “I doubt the guards will be taking potshots today, sir.  Too many prisoners down there to guard to worry about the ones already behind bars.”

“True,” Porter said, coming to his side and peering down, too.  “Your men?” he guessed.

“I think it’s bound to be,” Adam replied. Then, he cried “Yes!” and quickly lowered his voice lest he draw the guards’ attention.  “There’s some of our red cloverleafs down there.”  He wouldn’t admit it, of course, but he had his eye out for one particular prisoner.  However, he didn’t spot Michael Bufford among the throng being herded into the warehouse across the street.   He could only hope the private had not caused so much trouble along the march here that he was already dead.

When he met up with Dan shortly thereafter, he said, “There were some cloverleafs among the new prisoners, so it’s our corps, at least, if not our own nutmeggers.”

“Oh, you’re not a nutmegger,” Dan scoffed, proud of his Connecticut roots; then he cocked his head quizzically.  “What on earth do they call men from Nevada, anyway?”

“Manly pioneers,” Adam said with so straight a face it took Dan a moment to realize his leg was being pulled.  Turning serious, Adam said, “A shame we can’t have our men with us.”

Dan snorted.  “You should know by now that Luxurious Libby is for officers.”

“If this is luxury, what awaits our men?” Adam demanded.

“I don’t know,” Dan admitted, “and I do care, Adam, but there isn’t much we can do about it.  They’ll have to get by on their own until we’re all exchanged.”

Adam’s brow furrowed as he again pondered whether that scapegrace Bufford had it in him to survive without a speck of guidance.  Then he grimaced as he recalled Saint Paul’s advice not to think of himself more highly than he ought.

*****

His nervous stomach wouldn’t allow Adam to eat even the scanty supper provided, for the concert would be almost directly afterwards.  He’d always been that way, even when the bounties of home had been available, for he’d never wanted anything to keep him from his best performance.  Even that, however, didn’t explain the anxiety he felt as he lined up with the other singers.  After all, this would probably be the most forgiving audience he’d ever faced if the philosophy of “beggars can’t be choosers” held true, for there could scarcely be an audience closer to beggars than the ragtag prisoners of war, now seated on the floor, row upon row.

Maybe, he thought, as Major Porter stood before them, it was the lack of accompaniment, which would leave their voices bare and vulnerable, with nothing to cover the slightest mistake.  He’d sung a cappella before, though.  No, there was nothing to blame but his inborn need for perfection, so he’d just have to set it aside and sing with all his heart.  Men desperate for anything to help them forget where they were for a brief hour deserved that.  He’d no sooner come to that conclusion than the director’s right hand moved down-left-right-up to set the tempo for the first measure, and all his nerves disappeared in the sheer enjoyment the music permitted him to both receive and give to men who needed it as much as he.

No audience, not even the miners back home, who were nearly as deprived of entertainment as the soldiers here, had ever applauded louder.  The sound was thunderous in the packed room as they came to their feet for a standing ovation and then surged forward to reward the singers with hearty slaps on the back and handshakes all around.  More than one came up to Adam to tell him what a fine voice he had and how much it added to the choir.  Inwardly, Adam groaned.  After all Herr Stoeckel at Yale had tried to teach him about balance, he’d fallen back into his old habit of sticking out like a sore thumb.  He would have apologized to his fellow vocalists, but somehow, here, he didn’t think it would matter, and frankly, some of the voices could do with the bit of cover an overly enthusiastic singer could provide.  He let himself relax and just absorb the goodwill.  Somehow, when he lay down to sleep, the floor didn’t seem half so hard or the bodies he was spooned with nearly as sweaty as before.

*****

Despite the afterglow of the previous night’s success, Adam woke with a moan.  Not because his body was sore, though it was, but because it was Sunday, and here in Libby, Sunday was kept in Sabbath quietude.  Not because the men here had transformed from soldiers to saints, but because there was absolutely nothing on the agenda except roll call and meals, neither of those events something to look forward to.  Out of respect for the more devout among them, there would be no classes and no choir rehearsal; in short, nothing to fill the long hours until he again lay down on his unyielding bed.

As he often did in such moments, Adam took out the pictures of his family and looked long and lovingly at them: Pa, his rock of support in all the hard places of his life; Hoss, whose faithful friendship he could always rely on; and Little Joe, with his innocent cherub’s smile and a naughty twinkle in his eye that hinted at the touch of imp inside.  What he wouldn’t give to laugh at the antics of that imp today!  So dear, all of them, and just seeing their cherished images again strengthened his resolve to endure whatever he had to, whether mere boredom or worse, to return to them again.  As men around him began to stir, he put the pictures away and made his way back to the latrines and then the water spigot to begin this new and doubtlessly over-long day.

He wasn’t sure how he would have gotten through it, had it not been for Dan, though even they found little to talk about once they’d exhausted their habitual grousing about the food and service at Hotel Libby.  When Dan got up to leave him, saying only, “Back soon,” he assumed his friend had headed for the latrine to deal with another bout of dysentery, to which he seemed increasingly prone.  Dan’s absence, however, stretched so far past “back soon” that he decided to investigate, but as soon as he stood up, he saw the first lieutenant across the room, talking to another officer.  Sitting down, he dejectedly decided that his erstwhile friend had become so bored with his taciturn company that he’d gone in search of more amiable conversation.

He could not have been more wrong.  Within ten minutes his former companion, grinning ear to ear, returned.  “Guess what I’ve obtained for you,” Dan said, arms held behind his back.

“Couldn’t imagine,” Adam responded grumpily, holding to his previous conclusion.

“Well, you might try,” Dan said, his lips tightening into a straight line.  “I’ve gone to some trouble for it, you know.”

Adam shook himself in realization that he was acting like a churl.  Whatever this gift might be, Dan was, at least, trying to make a bad situation bearable for him, and he deserved a better reward.  “Sorry,” he said.  “I am a grouch this morning.  Must’ve woken up on the wrong side of the bed.”

“Not sure there’s a right one,” Dan said, as he folded amiably onto the floor and finally pulled his offering from behind his back.

Adam was not given to sudden transformations of mood, but his eyes lit with wonder, delight and expectation as he reached greedily for the folded paper Dan extended to him.  “How . . . how did you?”

Dan shrugged.  “Asked around.  It’s yesterday’s paper, too, as fresh off the presses as you can get here at Libby.”

“You’re amazing, and it must have cost you a pretty penny, too.”

Dan laughed.  “A penny, period, no matter the state of its appearance.  It’s only rented, my friend.  Yours until an hour past dinner, so devour what you will ‘til then, and share the gleanings with me afterwards, all right?  I’ve found something elsewhere to occupy my Sunday morning.”

“And what mischief might that be?” Adam queried with a waggle of his eyebrows.

“Wait and see,” Dan replied mysteriously and quickly took himself off toward the side of the room.

Shrugging, Adam opened the folded sheets and, squinting in the dim light, began to read the first article.  Titled only “Supplies,” it made him groan, for apparently a Union raid had curtailed the arrival of supplies in Richmond.  He could well imagine who would feel the brunt of any shortage in that department!  Much as he dreaded further curtailment of their already meager diet, he could hardly view any Federal success with disfavor.  He continued his perusal of the Richmond Dispatch of May 9, which related reports of Hooker’s troops with anything but an unbiased eye.  While Adam’s own opinion of Fighting Joe didn’t differ much, it was hard to see his commanding officer and his expectations of pressing “on to Richmond” ridiculed in the enemy’s press.  Still harder to read the article copied from the London Times, which seemed to imply that the North had little chance of victory against their opponents in the South.  It even mentioned reports that a Northwestern Confederacy was being planned in the Western states.  Adam couldn’t credit that one; nonetheless, he pondered whether his own Nevada might be involved in such talks, if they, indeed, existed.  It was, after all, a territory of divided loyalties, although when he’d left, the Unionists were still in the majority.  Who knew what could have happened since then?  He felt a sudden longing to be home, to defend something more dear to him than even the Union.

Not wanting to let his brief time with the newspaper go to waste, however, he read on diligently, even stories he would ordinarily have skimmed through or skipped altogether: reports of crimes and court cases—oddly enough most of them in the north, rather than local news—arrests after an April 2^nd riot in the streets of Richmond, births and deaths, an amusing story about a battle between two swarms of bees and another relating the exchange between a lady whose hoop skirt monopolized the sidewalk and a drunken man.  Of them all, only one had any personal impact on him, and he sighed when he read the lists of amusements available last night in Richmond.

Returning just in time to hear it, Dan asked, “Something wrong?”

“Nothing our liberty wouldn’t cure,” Adam responded.  Seeing frown lines crease his friend’s forehead, he said, “I’m jealous of the entertainment available outside these walls.  What I wouldn’t give to see the performance of Macbeth at the Marshall Theater!”

“Poppycock!” Dan scolded.  “I’m sure any Confederate version of Shakespeare will pale by comparison with what you’ve seen in the North . . . or even the wilds of Nevada.”

Adam hooted, good humor restored, although his face sobered again as he read the final entries in the Richmond Dispatch, which starkly detailed the trade in human lives that had led to this bitter war between the States.  First, a man and a woman offered for hire or sale and then, five separate listings seeking the return of runaway slaves, including one only ten years old.  Well, that certainly gave the lie to the notion that slaves were generally content with their lot!  If anything, the reminder of why he’d joined the Army in the first place strengthened his resolve to get out of this place and back in the fight.

He skimmed once more through the stories he thought would most interest Dan and then folded the paper neatly to pass on to the next “renter.”  “Thanks,” he told his friend.  “It really helped pass the morning for me.”

“You’re welcome,” Dan said.  “I don’t suppose you’ll enjoy this as much, but it did occupy my time successfully.”  Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he pulled out something, held his hand toward Adam and slowly unrolled his fingers.  Lying in his palm was a ring carved from a bone.  “Well, go on; take it,” Dan chuckled.  “Call it a token of my esteem for your grand musical performance last night.

“Where?  How?” Adam stammered.

Dan snorted.  “Where?  Here, of course.  As to how, well, I carved it from one of the bones I found in our delightful dinners.  I hope I got the size close to right.”

Adam slid it onto a finger of his right hand.  “Near perfect and quite attractive, he said, admiring the design carved around its circle.  “I’ll treasure it always, Dan.  Thank you.”

“If I can locate enough bones,” Dan said, “I’ll make us a set of checkers.  Not sure how we’ll manage a board, though.”

“We’ll manage,” Adam vowed.  Lying back on his elbows, he reflected on his friend’s kindness.  It had certainly made this long day pass more quickly, and now he was promising future enjoyment, as well.  Adam was grateful to God and good angels, as Pa’d told him his mother used to say, that he’d been enrolled in the same company as Dan Worthington.

*****

Adam rolled over with a groan, roused by the sound of men stirring around him.  Was it his imagination or were the floors getting harder each night?  He felt like an old man as he lurched to his feet and stumbled groggily toward the latrines at the back of the large room.  Seeing the length of the line to use them, he almost cursed, but a sudden thought of Pa and what he would think of such behavior put a wry smile on his face, although the expression was a feeble copy of what it would have been back home.  He could almost hear Pa quoting Philippians: “Think on good things.”

“Hard to do when there aren’t any, Pa,” he muttered under his breath and immediately felt ashamed.  It was Monday, after all.  He’d made it through the enforced idleness of Sunday, thanks to Dan’s kindness, and today offered brighter prospects: his math class to teach and choir rehearsal.  At its end he’d be one day closer to the day he’d be exchanged and could once again breathe the unsullied air of freedom.  With his index finger, he stroked Dan’s ring as if it were a talisman of that promise, as well as their bond of friendship.

After relieving himself and washing as best he could, it was time to line up for roll call.  Always a long, wearisome procedure, but today the guards seemed more ill-tempered than before, as if trying to provoke some indiscriminate behavior they could punish.  Men ahead of him in line were being shoved roughly aside after giving their names, and those who dared to protest were treated to worse.  The man ahead of him in line apparently didn’t give his name quickly enough, and the guard clouted him on his left ear and spewed, “Yankee murderer!” at him, spitting in his face to further emphasize his enmity.  Some of the spittle struck Adam’s cheek, and he instinctively wiped it away with his hand.

Apparently, this, too, was an offense today, for the guard punished him by working up a mouth full of saliva and ejecting it, full force, into Adam’s face.  His taunting face dared the prisoner to react again.  Adam raised his chin and faced the tormenter with steady gaze, but kept his hands at his side and his mouth shut.  “Don’t bait the bear in its den,” he reminded himself as he walked away.  When it was safe, he swiped both cheeks with the back of his hand.

Dan Worthington, who’d seen what happened, came close to Adam’s ear and whispered, “Wonder what’s got their dander up this morning.”

“Perhaps Hooker’s marching on Richmond,” Adam suggested wryly.

“If only,” Dan scoffed.

It was mid-morning, shortly after classes dismissed, before they found out, and the news was met by some with hurrahs and shouts of triumph.  Adam himself couldn’t rejoice in the death of any man, although he knew that the loss of Stonewall Jackson the day before was certainly to the Union’s advantage.  He’d been an able and, from all he’d heard, honorable opponent, even though he’d fought in an unsupportable cause.  He’d seen Jackson’s wife and newborn daughter arrive at Guinea Station, and remembering that he, too, had been orphaned in infancy kept him somberly silent while others cheered.

The rumor mill reported that Jackson’s body was to arrive on the noon train, but the hour came and passed without any update that it had.  As the choir met after a lunch that seemed more paltry than usual, Adam chanced a glance out the window and was immediately reprimanded by the choirmaster.  “Today of all days, that isn’t wise,” Major Porter scolded.  “If ever the guards were in a mood to take potshots at any face they saw, it would be today, and as I’ve told you before, we can ill afford to lose a voice as good as yours, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir,” Adam responded automatically.  Then, realizing that sounded as if he were agreeing with the compliment paid him, he tried to stammer out an apology.  Porter waved it aside as unnecessary, and sounded the starting pitch of the next song.  As rehearsal ended, however, heightened noise in the street below made more than one risk a cautious look out the window, where a growing crowd was taking out their frustration over the delay of Jackson’s arrival on the Yankees closest to hand.  Castigating voices hurled accusations of “Murdering Yanks!” at the prison walls.  They really ought to be yelling “Murdering Rebs!” if anything, Adam mused.  While it was true that many of the prisoners now in Libby had fought in the battle that took Jackson’s life, by all reports, he’d been accidentally shot by his own men, not anyone in Union blue.  Probably worth a man’s life, though, to point out that inconvenient truth.

One of the guards yelled to the crowd that Jackson’s train had been delayed.  “Gonna be closer to 4 by the time he gets here, so ya’ll might as well go on home and rest yourselves ‘til then.”  The crowd still seemed reluctant to leave, but slowly they began to tire of hollering insults at nonresponding prison walls and began to drift away.

Much later that afternoon, Dan looked up from the checkers piece he was carving.  “You hear something?” he asked.

Adam’s brow wrinkled with frown lines.  “Maybe,” he conceded, though they were a long way from the open window.  Almost immediately, he added, “Yeah, I think so.”  The noise was faint, but it did resemble the crowd noise that had earlier been right below that window.  It seemed to grow closer for a brief while and then, though somewhat louder, remained at what he estimated was several blocks to the southwest.  “I don’t think they’re coming here,” he finally said to Dan.  “They must be congregating where they expect General Jackson to be brought.  Not the depot where they deposited us, though.  That’s closer.  Wonder what’s just south of that.”

“Capitol grounds,” a soldier nearby answered.  “Reckon they’re taking the mighty general to the Governor’s house.”

“Thanks,” Adam said.  “That seems reasonable.”

The soldier snorted derisively, but Adam couldn’t be sure if that was directed at him or “the mighty general” himself.  He suspected the latter.

The prisoners soon learned that evening rations would be delayed, out of respect for the procession bringing General Jackson to that place of honor, and they were all too wise to complain.  It was close to sundown by the time they finally lined up to received their nightly ration of bread, well-seasoned with scowls and a relish of sarcasm.

After another lengthy and ill-humored roll call, Adam immediately sought his spot on the floor and stretched out on his right side.  Walking on eggshells was tiring work, and he was ready for this day to end and, hopefully, be followed by one less tense on the morrow.  “Rest in peace, General Jackson,” he thought as he closed his eyes.  “Then, maybe, we can find some ourselves.”

*****

Whether wish or prayer, Adam got what he wanted, and the next day was as quiet and ordinary as he could possibly have hoped.  And the day after that brought both good news and an evening when all the irritants of life at Libby were suspended, at least for an hour.  The good news came first, and while it didn’t directly affect Adam, at least it would powerfully impact men he knew and felt a kinship with.

The announcement was made immediately after roll call, while all the prisoners stood huddled, hungry, on one side of the room.  At first, the delay in receiving morning rations was thought to be an extra irritant, intended to punish them for any lack of respect regarding Jackson, but then came the glad word that some soldiers would be exchanged, including the enlisted men of the 27^th Connecticut.  Though Libby was a prison designated for officers, there hadn’t been room for all the enlisted men at Crew and Pemberton’s tobacco warehouse across the street, and forty to fifty members of the 27^th were lodged here.  None were from Adam’s company, but the news would affect those across the street, as well, and he was glad, if a little envious, that men he knew and cared for were headed toward freedom.  The shout of joy that met the announcement was quickly squelched by the guards, of course.

High spirits couldn’t be squelched, however, even if their expression was forcibly subdued.  “It’ll be our turn next,” Dan told Adam with an encouraging smile.

Adam emitted a long, dreamy sigh.  “I have to admit I, for one, can scarcely wait to join our enlisted men.”

“And I, for one, am grateful that you weren’t included on the roster of those to be exchanged,” another voice inserted, “that is, if you can act as well as you sing.”

Adam spun around and smiled in recognition of a tall, dark-haired man he’d met at choir rehearsals.  “Oh, hello, Major . . . Biggers, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Lieutenant.  Well, can you?” Biggers asked with a trace of impatience.

“Can I . . . what?” Adam responded.

“Act,” Major Biggers sputtered.  “Or, to put it more bluntly, could you learn a few lines and render them with any degree whatsoever of credibility?  I’m desperate enough to take almost anyone.”

Adam laughed.  “Well, yes, I probably have that much ability as an actor.”

“He’s too modest,” Dan spoke up with a wicked grin.  “Why, college boys are always putting on productions of one type or another, aren’t they, Adam?”

“Not when they’re freshmen,” Adam muttered with a murderous look at his first lieutenant.  “Yale expects beginners to stick to their studies, sir.”

“Ah, a Yale man!”  Biggers almost bubbled with enthusiasm.  “Yes, I remember that now!  You definitely have the ability to memorize, then . . . and we won’t even demand it in Latin . . . or Greek or whatever your specialty is.”

“We, sir?” Adam said with an inquiring arch of his eyebrow.

“The Libby Players,” Major Biggers replied.  “We’re scheduled to put on a production tonight, and we’ve lost a couple of our actors to the ravages of dysentery.  I know it’s last-minute, but could you help out?”

“Of course, as long as you don’t expect a professional performance,” Adam said with a grin, which turned positively wicked as he draped a long arm around the shoulders of the man so evidently eager to volunteer him for anything under the sun, “and as you need another man, can I recommend Lieutenant Daniel Worthington?”

“Oh, no!” Dan exclaimed.  “I-I couldn’t.  I’m not . . .”

“Able to relay orders from on high with great accuracy,” Adam said with a wink at the captain, “so if the part is no longer than that, Dan’s your man.”

“I did say desperate,” Biggers laughed.  “I’m sure you’ll do fine, Lieutenant Worthington, and I’ll give you the smaller part.”  He pulled out a couple of sheets of paper with handwritten lines and pointed out the part each of them needed to learn and told them where and when to come for rehearsal.

After the major left, Dan growled at Adam, “How could you?”

Adam laughed aloud.  “Turnabout is fair play, sir . . . or so I was taught in school.”

Dan blew out a derisive gust of air.  “College boy,” he muttered.

Adam hooted.  “I meant grammar school!  Come on.  Let’s have a look at these lines, see if we can’t get them learned before our delightful dinner arrives.”

Adam studied his lines diligently and thought he had them almost mastered by the time he left for choir rehearsal.  He returned to find Dan still struggling with his smaller part and devoted himself to helping his friend until time for play rehearsal, as indicated by the chime of some distant clock in the city.  Adam and a very reluctant Dan made their way to the appointed part of the room, where they met the other players.  Due to the scarcity of paper, none of them, except the director, had a full copy of the script, each actor having only a page with his own lines and the ones immediately before it to serve as cues.  Served up that way, they hadn’t made much sense to the two lieutenants, though Adam suggested that the play appeared to be a send-up of incarcerated life.

And so it proved to be.  The amateur author was no Shakespeare, but the script was funny, spoofing the notorious foibles of the guards and the daily indignities of life in Libby: the close quarters, the fragrant aroma of so many sweating bodies spooned together, and some soldiers’ recurrent battles with an invading army of lice.  Thankfully, neither Adam nor Dan had felt that final torment yet, though they’d been told it was inevitable.  Adam did his best to deliver his funniest lines with a dry humor that the director declared an example for all to follow.  Poor Dan tried, but his lines tended to be spoken in such stilted tones that they did, indeed, sound like a relay of orders from command headquarters.  “Loosen him up a bit, if you can,” the director whispered to Adam at the close of rehearsal, and Adam nodded his acceptance of the challenge.

As he and Dan walked back to their usual area, Adam emitted a long sigh.  Then he said with exaggerated glumness, “Too bad they couldn’t have waited a day for those exchanges.  I’m afraid attendance at our debut tonight may be greatly diminished.”

“Are you kidding?” Dan started to protest indignantly.  “How could you wish any man’s stay here to be extended by even . . .”  Then, spotting the wicked grin that crossed his second lieutenant’s face, he wagged an admonishing finger under Adam’s nose.  “Be careful,” he threatened, “or I’ll have you up on charges of behavior unbecoming an officer.”

Adam gave him a razor-sharp salute.  “Yes, sir!  Duly noted, sir!”

It was late afternoon before the enlisted men bound for freedom lined up below them on Carey Street and marched toward City Point, where the United States transport steamer awaited them.  The final dramatic rehearsal, ongoing at the time, was suspended briefly.  The guards were always less likely to take potshots at the window when they had a mass of prisoners in the street to take their attention, so the players, especially those most directly touched, could scan the gathering crowd for familiar faces in presumptive safety.  Adam spotted several men of their company, including Michael Bufford, whose wide grin could not be missed, and it was soon reflected by those on the faces of both his senior officers.

As the men marched out, the director cleared his throat loudly.  “Can we get back to business, gentlemen?” he suggested pointedly.  “We have a performance tonight, if you recall.”

*****

The play was a rousing success.  “Encore!  Encore!” shouted the grateful audience.

“We don’t have one,” the director declared loudly.

“Do this one again, then!”

Major Biggers shook his head.  “Not enough time before lights out,” he muttered. Looking around the gathered cast, he asked, “Anyone have a poem they could recite or something?  Anything?”

When the plea met nothing but silence, Adam reluctantly suggested, “I could probably quote a speech from Shakespeare, if you think they’d tolerate the immortal bard.  The miners back home do.”

“You’re on,” declared his leader, pointing an authoritative index finger at Adam’s chest, and he stepped forward to announce the next offering.

Thankfully, Adam knew exactly what he wanted to recite, and given the short notice, that was next door to a miracle.  As he’d mentally reviewed his lines that afternoon, he’d several times found his thoughts straying to a speech from “As You Like It,” and the choice struck him as particularly apt for this audience.  Stepping forward, he began to recite the words with all the feeling he could muster:

“All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages.  At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.

Then, the whining schoolboy with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school.  And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow.”

He said this line with an exaggerated arch of his own prominent eyebrow, to which the audience responded with appreciative laughter.  Then his mood sobered suddenly as he continued with the fourth age of man, a section he knew each man here would find personally significant:

“Then, a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honor, sudden, and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon’s mouth.  And then, the justice,

In fair round belly, with a good capon lined,

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws, and modern instances,

And so he plays his part.”

For this fifth age he used his fond memories of Pa, who had the wisdom of a justice, though without the round belly, but since even Pa hadn’t reached the advanced years of the final two sections, he had only his imagination to draw on as he finished the speech:

“The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound.  Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.”

His head shook in apparent sympathy as he finished, but the wicked gleam in his eye made the audience laugh outright, and they broke into applause until it was silenced by the order to disperse and find their beds.  As he made his way toward his spot on the floor, one of the guards stopped him.  “Not bad, Yank,” he drawled.  “You ain’t no Booth, but not bad.”

“Thank you,” Adam said, some remnant of Pa’s mannerliness surviving, even in this atmosphere.  He cared nothing for the guard’s good opinion, but he had to agree.  He’d seen the Booths perform back in California, and he was definitely not up to that standard.  Still, even to be mentioned in the same context was gratifying, and it was with a sense of satisfaction that he once again stretched out on the hard floor.

*****

That sense of satisfaction was still with Adam when he woke the next morning.  The dramatic performance had made him recall similar productions back at Yale and, if he cast his mind back even further, at his academy in Sacramento.  He’d enjoyed the opportunity to express himself and regretted that it had to end.  But it had to, of course.  It wouldn’t be fair to begin a new play when he wasn’t likely to be available for its actual production.

“Absolutely right!” Dan agreed enthusiastically, for entirely different and thoroughly transparent reasons.

“Still, we should tell Major Biggers our reasons for leaving the company,” Adam said.  “He may not have put two and two together.”

“Not having taken your math class,” Dan quipped.

Adam groaned dutifully.  “The wonder is that you did take it and still can’t put two and two together.”

“Yes, I’m truly hopeless,” Dan said, “so you make the excuses for both of us.  I’d be sure to forget my lines, and you, sir, are a master declaimer.  Everyone says so.”

“I doubt that,” Adam snorted.  “You, sir, are simply lazy or, perhaps, a coward.”

“I’d challenge you to a duel for that insult, if I had a better sword than a chicken bone.”

“Speak for yourself,” Adam groaned.  “Personally, I have not seen a chicken bone for so long that I’m afraid I wouldn’t recognize one if you thrust me through with it!”

Dan chuckled.  “I give up.  I’ll never match you in a duel of words.”

“Well, you can challenge me to one with chicken bones, first meal after we take the transport north.”

“With our luck, it’ll be liver and onions, not chicken,” Dan said, shaking his head.

“Ah, the ambrosia of the gods,” Adam smirked back with a provoking arch of his eyebrow.

Not wanting to wait until the designated rehearsal hour to deliver his resignation, Adam approached Major Biggers immediately after teaching his math class.  The director looked elated to see him.  “Ah, Lieutenant Cartwright!” he enthused.  “Just the man I want to see!”

“To discuss the next production?” Adam guessed with discerning dread.

“Exactly!  After your inspired performance last night, I suppose it can come as no surprise that I’ve tapped you for the lead in our next one.”

Adam’s heart sank.  Ordinarily, he’d have been elated to hear such news, but now it only made the message he was about to transmit harder.

Biggers caught his expression and sobered.  “You’re not pleased?  Come now, lieutenant, you mustn’t be so shy and self-effacing.”

“I’m not,” Adam said, shocked into blunt truth, “but I came to see you, sir, to tell you that Lieutenant Worthington and I—of necessity, not desire, at least on my part—must resign from the company.”

The major frowned.  “What necessity?  Some more enticing opportunity?”

“Certainly not,” Adam protested.  “Well, yes, in a way, I suppose.  Freedom is always more enticing than remaining here at Libby, sir, and since our enlisted men have been exchanged, I presume our liberation cannot be far behind.  I wouldn’t want to start a new production and then leave you in the lurch at the last minute.”

Major Biggers’ reaction was the last Adam had expected: he laughed, loud enough to turn heads in their direction.  “Oh, the optimism of youth,” he declared when he gained control of himself.  Seeing Adam’s puzzled expression, he smiled wryly and said, “Does it not occur to you, lieutenant, that if that logic held, I’d be gone long before you?”

Adam felt like an idiot.  For him to be bested at logic by anyone was a rare occurrence.  Here, it was downright embarrassing.  “I suppose it should have,” he admitted slowly.

“Well, you’re still a fresh fish,” Biggers consoled him.  “To be more specific, lieutenant, the exchange system is a fickle mistress and its timing utterly unreliable.  It can be swift, especially for enlisted men, as they can be exchanged one for one.  Officers are considered more valuable, so a higher rate is required to redeem us.  Anywhere from four enlisted men for a lieutenant such as yourself, to sixty for a general.”

“Yes, sir, I knew that, somewhere at the back of my mind.”  Adam sighed.

“Don’t misunderstand me, Lieutenant Cartwright,” the major continued.  “I wish you the speediest release from Libby possible, and it is minimally possible that it could be before our next production.  If so, I’ll deal with it, hard as that will be.  In the meantime, I suggest we go on as if we expected to get one more performance out of you before losing you to the greater enticement of freedom.”

Adam straightened, barely restraining himself from saluting.  “Yes, sir.  Happy to, sir.”

“Good.”  The major’s smile was warm and genuine, and as Adam turned to leave, he cleared his throat.  “And, uh, you can tell Lieutenant Worthington that I hadn’t planned to give him many lines, perhaps none.”

Adam grinned.  “I think he’ll be relieved, sir.  Thank you.”

Dan looked not only relieved, but elated at the news, but he sobered quickly when the other shoe dropped.  “I knew it was too good to be true . . . or should have,” he said and then shrugged it off.  “Well, at least, it gives me one more opportunity to enjoy your dramatic talents.”

Adam chuckled lightly, but secretly admitted how much he, too, would enjoy that opportunity.  Certainly, it made the disappointment over the delayed exchange easier to bear, and he lay down that night content, despite his continuing confinement with all its petty discomforts.  Unknown to him, on an island in Lake Erie, far to the north, something would happen the next day which would threaten not only his hopes for an early exchange, but his very life.

Chapter 9

The Lottery of Death

Still aware of no danger greater than delay, Adam concentrated on the responsibilities directly before him, which were considerable.  He found great satisfaction in the progress of his mathematics students.  Each was making strides in algebra, even the one whose background should have ensured failure.  Perhaps, he thought, there is something to be said for an environment that limits distractions.  Then he shook his head.  There was nothing to be said for the environment of a Confederate prison.  The credit belonged entirely to the men who had purposed to make the best of this miserable situation and prepare themselves for a better future.

Saturday, he focused on the choir’s performance that night, as well as the director’s unexpected request that he have a solo ready, if needed.  Apparently, his encore at the conclusion of the previous performance of the Libby Players had put ideas in the choir master’s head.  “Even if it’s only that song you sang when I auditioned you,” the man said.

Adam thought he could surely do better than that, so throughout the morning, he racked his brain for every song he knew.  He finally decided on one he had learned from some Irish miners back home, “The Meeting of the Waters.”  The sentimental ballad he sang that night at the close of the concert portrayed the beautiful setting of the Avoca River.  He’d never seen that place, of course, so his own mind conjured memories of the Truckee River, flowing from Lake Tahoe into Pyramid Lake.  A wilder river, probably, than the Irish one, but the song’s message expressed longings for home that Adam knew would resonate with every man here.  He didn’t even have to try to enthuse the words with feeling, for he could almost see the river gurgling through Truckee Meadows as he began:

“There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet

As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;

Oh! The last rays of feeling and life must depart;

Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.”

His sentiments intensified as he began the second verse, whose words even more conjured scenes of the pristine beauties of the Ponderosa and the third brought more powerful images of home:

“Yet it was not that nature had shed o’er the scene

Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;

‘Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or rill

Oh no—it was something more exquisite still.”

 

“‘Twas that friends the beloved of my bosom were near,

Who made every scene of enchantment more dear,

And who felt how the best charms of nature improved,

When we see them reflected from looks we love.”

 

Though the words spoke of friendship, Adam’s mind focused momentarily on the photographic images of Pa, Hoss and Little Joe that so often strengthened him in the early morning hours here at Libby.  However, his friends and companions here were important, too, and putting personal emotions aside, he focused on them for the climax and poured on his feelings into a goal they all shared:

“Sweet vale of Avoca!  How calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best.

Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.”

The room exploded with applause.  Better than most, the prisoners of Libby longed for the storm their world was enduring to cease and yearned for peace.  Even the guards joined in, and for one brief moment, they were no longer enemies, but simply men with the common need for it all to end and each to return to his personal “vale of Avoca” and be again with those he loved best.

*****

“Don’t bother with a newspaper,” Adam advised Dan after the next morning’s breakfast of bread and Confederate beef, adding after a somewhat embarrassed pause, “if you were even thinking of that.”

Dan chuckled.  “I wasn’t, actually.  You seem anything but bored the last few days.”

“You can say that again!” Adam exclaimed.  “You should see the number of lines our esteemed director wants me to learn.”

“I thought learning was what you school boys did best,” Dan teased.  “Just look at all those verses you gave us last night.”

“I’ve known that song for years,” Adam protested.  “Besides, music is easy.  The melody helps the memory, but lines in a play don’t have that aid, and he’s given me what amounts to soliloquys in several places.  I need your help, sir.”

Laughing, Dan waved negating hands before his face.  “I’ve been rejected, remember?”

“As an actor,” Adam conceded, “but not as a line coach.”  He waggled his eyebrows at his friend.  “You’re still interested in preserving my sanity, aren’t you?”

Dan sighed.  “I suppose, but providing a newspaper was a lot less work, and then I could sleep away the Sabbath afternoon.”

“Sleep is overrated,” Adam insisted.  Seeing Dan press a hand to his stomach, his expression grew troubled.  “Dysentery again?”

Dan nodded.  “Mule meat doesn’t agree with me, I guess.”

“I’m not sure it agrees with anyone,” Adam commiserated.  He was beginning to worry, however.  While the diet here wasn’t exactly conducive to health, he was tolerating it fairly well.  Dan’s stomach, however, seemed to rebel after almost any meal, and Adam was growing concerned.

He spent the morning solidifying his lines, and after lunch he had Dan feed him the lines before his several times until he was certain he would be ready for rehearsal on the morrow.  When tomorrow came, however, he would find himself consumed with far more than the need to recite perfectly lines on a page.

*****

That Monday began like any other, although there was a solemnity in the way the guards carried out the established routine of roll call.  Instead of dismissing the prisoners for breakfast at its close, however, they ordered them to remain in their lines for a special announcement.  “Maybe it’s our exchange notice,” Dan suggested, since that procedure had been followed before for similar news.

“I don’t think so,” Adam said, having noted the grave expressions on every Confederate face, and on some, flashes of barely contained anger.

They were kept waiting for some time, and the prisoners started to protest.  “Best you keep your mouths shut,” advised the head guard, and the quiet way he said it made the men more likely to follow his instruction.  Adam exchanged a look with Dan and received a sober nod in return.  Clearly, the person who would deliver this announcement was no ordinary guard, nor even the ever-present and nasty-tempered clerk, Eramus Ross.  Equally clear, the more august the deliverer of the message, the less likely it was to be something as commonplace as a prisoner exchange.  Something was up, and it probably wasn’t good.

That impression was confirmed when into the room strode a man barely in his twenties, clean-shaven with close-cut dark hair.  Unlike the other Confederate officials, he was in full-dress uniform, including the gray cap most would forego when indoors.  Too young for the job he’s been given and determined to dress the part to counteract that, Adam surmised.  He’d seen youthful Union officers do the same.  Most of the prisoners had never seen this officer before, but whispers quickly relayed his identity down the rows of men in frayed blue uniforms, along with ripples of heightened anxiety.

“Thomas Pratt Turner, commandant,” someone finally whispered to Adam.  He relayed the news to Dan, whose mouth suddenly set in a hard line.

Adam read the expression correctly: if the commandant himself were making the announcement, it must be of extraordinary importance.

Turner planted himself at the front of the room and scanned the faces in front of him, apparently to make certain that he had everyone’s full attention.  “I regret to inform you,” he began, though he looked more snide than sorry, “that your General “Stuck-in-the-Mud” Burnside has, in complete breach of military custom, executed, without cause, two Confederate recruiting officers.”  He continued with a thin smile, “In consequence, two of your officers will be hanged by the neck until you are dead.  To determine which of you will be so honored, a lottery will be held at a time yet to be determined, among all those of the rank of captain or lieutenant.”  As he dismissed them, there was no missing the scoffing tone with which he invited the captives to “enjoy your breakfast, gentlemen.”

Shouts of outrage pulsed throughout the large room, but the commandant, moving briskly and purposely toward the exit, ignored them.  With his departure, the protests died down, as everyone seemed to sense their futility.  We’re cogs in a machine, Adam thought, and those operating it, on both sides of what Pa called this “eastern conflict,” are too far removed to hear us rant and rage . . . or, maybe, even care.

They lined up for breakfast, more from habit than because they had much interest in eating.  Some discussed the news in whispers; others were still too stunned to say anything.  “How many of us are there?” Dan asked Adam.

Adam responded with another question. “Are you trying to calculate our odds?”

“You’re the mathematician,” Dan muttered grimly.

“Pointless equation,” Adam returned with equal sobriety.  “Each of us has as much chance of being “honored,” as the commandant put it, as the next man.”  One side of his mouth quirked up as he added, “Odds are pretty good we won’t both be chosen, though.”

Dan closed his eyes.  “Do not joke about this, Adam.  My sense of humor about our stay at Hotel Libby has completely dissolved.”

Adam nodded grimly.  “I concur.  The sooner we check out, the better.”

“Preferably not at the end of a rope,” Dan said flatly.

Adam shuddered involuntarily.  “Preferably,” was all he said, though he could barely contain his outrage.  To be hanged like common criminals, not executed by firing squad as befitted military officers.  Not the quick oblivion of a bullet in the head, but the slow strangulation of a noose around their necks.  Bile rising in his throat, he set aside his unfinished breakfast.  “I think I’ll head on over to my class,” he announced as he stood.

“Will there be one?” Dan asked with some surprise, for the last thing on his mind that morning was a lesson in algebra.

Adam shrugged.  “If you’re asking whether anyone will show up, I don’t know, but it behooves me as their teacher to be there in case someone does.”

His own leadership habits clicking into place, Dan stood up.  “I’ll join you, then.  Let’s see who else does.”

When the hour for his class to convene arrived, Adam was gratified and touched to see that all five of his students—six, counting Dan—had come, as usual.  Second Lieutenant Roberts seemed to speak for them all when he said, “Rather think about algebra, hard as it is, than . . . other things, sir.”

“A wise decision,” Adam commended him.  “Most of us will make it through this travesty of justice, so we’ll continue to prepare ourselves for the future beyond Libby.”

“Are we going to calculate the odds?” Dan asked waggishly.  “That’s one way to apply this accursed algebra to real life!”

Adam uttered a short, humorless laugh.  “We can if you wish, though we’d have to collect some information as to the current count of captains and lieutenants, etc.”

“No, sir,” Roberts said stoutly, “since it isn’t only ourselves we care about.  The odds are it will be someone who’s become almost a brother to us.”

Dan clapped him on the shoulder.  “Well said, Lieutenant.”  Turning to the others, he added, “Forgive my levity, gentlemen.”

“We must each deal with this as best we can,” Adam said, “and since our time this morning is limited, I would suggest that, for now, we deal with it by filling our minds with something that does make sense.”

Dan clucked his tongue.  “The sad thing is, my almost brothers, he actually believes algebra makes sense to anyone but him!”  And this time everyone responded to his jest with healing laughter.

*****

Toward the end of class, Adam noticed Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Merwin standing on the outskirts, watching.  When he paused momentarily, the superior officer gestured for him to continue.  Adam did, setting a new problem for his students and starting his copy circulating, so the others could write it down on their own papers.  Then he stepped toward Merwin and saluted him.

Merwin laughed.  “It’s I who should be saluting you, Lieutenant.”  Sobering, he waved Dan over, as well.  When the first lieutenant arrived, he said, “I’ve been making the rounds of our own men affected by the latest Confederate outrage, bolstering spirits where I can, but I can see that here it is unneeded.  My commendations, Lieutenant Cartwright, for doing what you can to keep up the morale of others, and I’m sure Lieutenant Worthington here is doing his part by keeping up yours.”

“He is, sir,” Adam affirmed.

“Well done.”  There was genuine sorrow in Merwin’s eyes as he continued, “I sincerely regret that it is you younger officers and not those of us in superior command that must face this challenge.  I can assure you that protests are being made, and we can only hope that saner minds will prevail before this thing gets completely out of hand.  In the meantime, carry on as you’ve begun.”

Sensing the discussion was at its end, both junior officers saluted, and Merwin returned it in a manner than conveyed his respect, warmed their hearts and strengthened their resolve to meet the future with courage.

“What do you think he meant by the thing getting completely out of hand?” Dan asked as they returned to their established section of the room.

“I can’t say for sure,” Adam said, “but suppose they do execute two officers here.  How do you think our leaders would respond?”

Dan caught his breath, but then responded in hushed gravity, “Tit for tat, you think?  Two more of theirs for the ones they execute?”

“And two more of ours for the next two we kill . . . and on and on until we’re all gone.”

“That’s crazy,” Dan said as he folded onto the floor.

Adam nodded grimly, also sitting.  “Let’s hope that someone figures out how crazy it is . . . and just stops.”  That fragile hope was all he could cling to, but in the craziness of war, would anything but ‘tit for tat’ ever prevail?

*****

The choir met, as usual, after lunch, and the director took much the same attitude Adam had with his algebra class.  “I’m gratified that almost everyone is present on this particularly difficult day,” Major Porter said.  “Hopefully, this ridiculous edict will be revoked, but everyone’s spirits will be at low ebb until it is.  Yours is a challenging mission, men: to set aside your justifiable qualms for your own future and encourage the hearts of those listening.  To that end, I’ve chosen only uplifting songs.”  He paused.  “I’m afraid that means more work for you, as some of the songs we’ve been working on don’t meet that criterion.  We will, therefore, be substituting new choices for those.”  After allowing suitable time for predictable, but accepting groans, he said, “We’ll start with one of those.”

As they began to learn “Uncle Sam’s Farm,” Adam couldn’t help thinking that it was a sight more than just “uplifting.”  Its defiant message of “this glorious Yankee nation” being “the greatest and the best” hit the Confederacy square in the face, as if to show that no threat, personal as this one was, could sway them from the Union’s defense.  The chorus did make him laugh, though, with its assertion that Uncle Sam was “rich enough to give us all a farm,” and laughter was uplifting, indeed.

That was proven even more by the introduction of the next song, “When Pigs Begin to Fly.”  Verse after verse related the strange things that might happen when that occurred, and the chorus, especially, had all the singers in stitches:

 

“When pigs begin to fly,

Oh won’t the pork be high.

Though they are the most unlikely birds

That ever flew in the sky,

I see no reason why

They should never have a try.”

 

“I believe that’s enough new material for today,” Major Porter said at the close of rehearsal.  “I do have one other new song planned, with which we’ll conclude our program: “Stand by the Union,” a sentiment I’m sure we all endorse.”  Hurrahs and upthrust arms demonstrated total agreement.

The optimistic attitude also prevailed in the meeting of the Libby Players later that afternoon.  Since Adam had arrived early, Major Biggers spoke to him personally, asking whether he thought he could manage the comic demeanor called for in the lead part, “considering the current crisis.”

“I think so,” Adam replied.  “Our choir master chose some humorous songs, and I noticed that laughter seemed to help all of us put the ‘current crisis’ in a more bearable light.”

“Exactly what I hope our play will do,” the major said.  “Just put it out of your mind for half an hour, Lieutenant, and I’m sure you’ll help others do so for even longer.”

“I’ll try, sir,” Adam said stoutly, and when the rehearsal started, he threw himself into the character and found that as long as he concentrated on that, the cloud hanging over his head seemed to blow away on winds of laughter.

He couldn’t laugh them off forever, however.  As he lay on the hard floor that night, dark visions of a revolving lottery barrel filled his mind, and then it turned to all he would lose if his name were one of the two drawn.  His eyes misted over as he thought of Pa, of his precious little brothers, and the beloved Ponderosa.  He started to pull out their ambrotypes, something that had always comforted him before.  But this time he held back, for fear that more tears would follow the single one that tracked down his cheek.  Instead, he pressed his hand over the pocket that held the dear images, and though he wasn’t typically a praying man, he whispered a short, but sincere petition, “Dear God, let me see them again.”

*****

After a short and restless night’s sleep, which Adam sensed he had shared with many around him, he arose at the appointed hour and adopted once more the strained mask of optimism.  Put the needs of others first, he told himself.  Sound Biblical advice of which Ben Cartwright would heartily approve, but hard to carry off in the face of death.  Pa himself hadn’t managed that when faced with the death of three spouses, at least not at first.  But after that?  Oh, yes!  He had put the needs of his sons ahead of his own grief each time, and with that light shining before him, Adam took renewed courage to do the same.  Throughout that long day, he bolstered Dan’s spirits with wry humor, replenished his own soul with the uplifting songs the choir rehearsed, and then threw himself into the comic character of the Libby Players’ production, in hopes of replenishing the souls of others.

Then night came.  Exhausted, he fell asleep almost at once, but the demons crept out to taunt him with images of a hangman’s noose and the tearful faces of his family watching him die.  Why? his tortured spirit screamed, but he knew why: because the same officer who’d sent him into the killing field at Fredericksburg had decided, for God knew what reason, to execute two Confederate officers.  Now, two of them had to die and then tit for tat . . . on and on.  He groaned in his sleep as he saw the line of those to die stretching across the plains he’d traveled with Pa and Inger, past the Rocky Mountains and the Forty-Mile Desert until its ghastly length reached the hallowed ground of the Ponderosa itself, and he saw his two little brothers join the ranks of the condemned.

He jolted awake, fighting for breath in the fetid atmosphere of a thousand sweating bodies, and it became, for him, the smell of the fear enveloping them all.  To counteract it, he did the one thing he’d told himself he wouldn’t: he took out the pictures of his family and whispered ferociously, “I will come back to you!”  Stupid, childish, a promise he had no power to keep, but just voicing it sent fiber into his spine.

It was still too early to rise, so to occupy his mind, he ran through his lines for the play tonight.  The last thing he felt like being now was comical, but perhaps the very gravity of his spirit would enable him to say them with a flatness that might pass for dry humor.

*****

Adam went through his usual routine and tried to summon the same courage he’d found the day before, but it was harder today.  Perhaps the dream still haunted him or, perhaps, it was always harder to maintain courage in the daily grind than in the initial battle.  Still, he made it through his mathematics class, the clear logic of algebra helping him focus on something other than the looming threat.  As he was dismissing his students, he saw Lieutenant-Colonel Merwin again standing on the outskirts and eagerly approached him.  “Any news, sir?” he asked after saluting.

“Some,” Merwin said, also motioning Dan forward.  “This concerns you, as well, Lieutenant Worthington.”  When Dan was at Adam’s side, he continued, “I’ve managed to get hold of a copy of yesterday’s Richmond Dispatch.  It verifies what you already know about the lottery, but does offer a thin strand of hope, at least.  Perhaps you’d like to read it for yourselves?”

As the superior officer, Dan answered quickly.  “Unnecessary, sir.  I’m certain we can trust your report.”

A momentary mirth twitched Merwin’s lips.  “Always, I hope.  The newspaper reports that despite one of our transport boats leaving City Point last Sunday without any of the 250 men slated for exchange, it is probable that most of us incarcerated here will be sent home before the end of the week.”

“The lottery won’t be before then, sir?” Adam asked.

“I don’t know,” Merwin admitted, “and I don’t know if by ‘most’ they’re including officers of all ranks, including yours, or if it refers primarily to enlisted men.  Ours, of course, are already safely back on Union soil.”

“Thankfully,” Adam whispered.

“A great relief to us, sir,” Dan added in agreement, “and we do thank you for this ray of hope that we may join them soon.”

“I wish it were more than a ray,” Merwin said, “but I wanted to keep you abreast of all developments.”

“Thank you, sir,” both lieutenants said almost simultaneously and after another exchange of salutes, Merwin left them, presumably to share that ray of hope with other affected young officers.

It was only a thin ray, not enough to silence, but at least to quiet the raging demon of Adam’s dream.  It sustained him throughout the day and made the performance he had to give that night seem possible.  The roars of laughter that met his most comic lines that evening indicated he had succeeded, but it was Dan, without speaking a single line, who stole the show with his exaggerated portrayal of a soldier afflicted with the trots of dysentery.  Perhaps in commiseration with an affliction they’d all experienced here in Libby, the audience howled with laughter.

When Adam tried to praise him for his performance, however, Dan brushed it aside.  “I wasn’t acting,” he moaned, holding his stomach.  “It’s a miracle I didn’t disappear off the ‘stage’ for a real trot to the latrine!”

Adam shook his head in sympathy.  They’d all experienced dysentery, yes, but Dan did seem to be afflicted more often than most, and if there was any substance at all to that ray of hope, this was no time to end up in the medical wing of Libby.

*****

Throughout Thursday and Friday, Adam focused diligently on the music the choir would be presenting Saturday night.  Not that he needed to.  He’d always picked up songs quickly, but it was far better to recite lyrics and hum melodies in his head than to let images of his continuing nightmares circulate there.  In the end, however, he would not have the opportunity to sing them in concert.  On Friday came the joyous news that the exchange for which he had so long yearned had happened at last.  They would have to leave before dawn and would, of course, miss their paltry breakfast, but what did that matter?  They were exchanged!  Headed home!  Well, not his real home, of course.  Not the Ponderosa, where he most longed to be, not even to New Haven, his almost-as-beloved home in the East, but, at least, home to the north, where life could resume some form of normalcy once more.

Time was short before lights out, but Adam felt obliged to see one man, though it was with mixed feelings that he approached Major Porter and expressed his regret at abandoning the choir on the eve of their performance.

“Don’t be ridiculous, lieutenant!” the major almost exploded.  “Do you think for one moment I begrudge you or any man the opportunity to leave this hellhole?”  Seeing that the strength of his words had caused the younger man to gasp, he took control of his emotions and spoke with greater control.  “Of course, you don’t, any more than you would begrudge me similar good news.”

“Of course not, sir,” Adam said with firm sincerity.  “I only wish you were included, sir, for you certainly have made my time here more endurable.”

Major Porter smiled.  “They’re not taking commissioned officers yet.  Hopefully soon, but I have, at least, one more performance to direct.  Your fine voice will be sorely missed, lieutenant, but take with you my sincere thanks for your contributions to the choir and my hopes that you will soon be back singing in your college one.  Your enlistment ends fairly soon, I believe?”

“Yes, sir,” Adam replied.  “About two months from now.”

“Our loss will be Yale’s gain in July, then.”  He saluted briskly and Adam returned it with equal crisp respect.  The major’s timing was off, of course.  He wouldn’t be back with the choir until the next term started in September, but just the thought of being that close to mustering out of the Army and back in that citadel of learning was a bolstering one.  He forced his mind not to leap that far ahead, though.  He wouldn’t feel truly safe until he marched out of Libby and onto the transport boat at City Point.  The candles on the walls were being snuffed out as he made his way back across the crowded room, but he reached the usual sleeping area without treading on anyone’s fingers or toes.  Though he spooned, as usual, between two officers, he didn’t expect to sleep much that night.  For the first time since entering the prison, he was eager to meet the morning and start the new day.

*****

Orders to line up came early, about 2 a.m.  Standing at the water tap in the back of the room when the call came, Adam hastily finished washing up and then scurried into line beside Dan Worthington.  Seeing his friend grasp his stomach, he anxiously asked, “What’s wrong?  Dysentery?”

“Shh!” Dan hushed him.  “Don’t tell . . . please,” he whispered.  “I can’t stay here.”

His face sober, Adam nodded, knowing that, in Dan’s place, he’d have begged the same grace.  However much a man might need medical attention, only imminent death would make him seek it here, when freedom and better help lay just thirty-five miles away.

No time for breakfast, but time always for bureaucratic matters.  For the first time since arriving here, Adam felt like cheering when Erasmus Ross entered that morning, holding the document the young man considered the most important he would ever sign.  With pride and anticipation (and some fear that a last-minute glitch would take it all away), he waited as his superior officers signed before him.  Just after Dan, he added his name to the promise:

 

“We the undersigned in the service of the United States, prisoners of war, pledge our word of honor that we will not, by arms, information, or otherwise, during the existence of hostilities between the United States and the Confederate States of America, aid or abet the enemies of said Confederate States, or any of them, in any form or manner until released or exchanged.”

 

As they marched out, Adam kept a careful eye on Dan, ready to lend a supporting arm, but hoping it would not be needed, at least until they were far from the stark walls of Libby Prison.   For now, they needed to keep up the charade that every man of them was healthy enough to travel, having received the best of care from their hosts at Hotel Libby.  Being early, it was still cool when they exited onto Cary Street, and Adam drank in deeply the freshest air he’d breathed since his capture.  The street was dark and quiet.  No taunting civilians greeted their departure as they had their arrival.  If that was the purpose of the early hour, Adam welcomed it and considered it well worth the loss of sleep and breakfast.  If the Rebs didn’t feed them a morsel between now and their destination at City Point, he felt confident the welcoming Union soldiers would.

Through dark, quiet streets, they marched to the railroad station and boarded the train.  The accommodations were exactly as they had been on their journey to the prison, but they wouldn’t have to deal with the heat for a few hours, at least.  Seeing Dan double over, Adam took his arm and all but lifted him up to the open car.  Henry Merwin, already inside, reached down to help him, as well.  “Up you come, Lieutenant,” he said, and then, though Adam needed no assistance, he reached a hand to him, as well.

“Thank you, sir,” Adam said quietly, more on Dan’s behalf than his own, and the nod Merwin gave him indicated he understood exactly what he meant and fully intended to help hide the lieutenant’s condition from the Confederate guards.  Soon it wouldn’t matter, for once they were underway, they wouldn’t take anyone off the train to return them to Libby.  Short of impending death, it would be easier to simply ignore any inconvenient illness and let the Yankees deal with it on their end.

As the door to the cattle car was closed, shutting them in, Adam exhaled a long, relieved sigh.  Hearing it, Merwin grinned and said, “You can rest now, lieutenant.  There’s even room enough to stretch out if you’re disposed to catch up on your sleep.  I intend to.”

Adam managed to avoid laughing in outright delight, but there was mirth and relief in his voice as he said, “Yes, sir!”  They’d come to Libby, packed like sardines in a can, but the exchanges had dwindled to such a trickle that now each man could sleep without even having to spoon next to the man beside him.  After helping Dan to lie down, he settled down beside him, and the rhythmic rolling over the rail tracks combined with sheer exhaustion and relief to send both young soldiers into relaxed slumber for the first time in weeks.

~~~~Notes~~~~

:While conditions at Libby Prison during Adam’s time there were difficult, his exchange came in time to spare him what they became later in the war, when Southern resources were even more depleted.  The 27^th Connecticut avoided that by the skin of their teeth, for the exchange system broke down the day they reached safety in the North, forcing some officers to be held there for years, and Libby’s reputation is second only to Andersonville in horror.  Activities such as academic classes, choir and drama productions, and even a prison newspaper existed, but may not have been developed fully until somewhat later, although there is evidence of a play performed at Libby as early as 1861.  The full range of activities is included here as an example of the soldiers’ ingenuity in occupying themselves in captivity.  I cannot imagine that even in better times, they would have been content to stand around, doing nothing day after day.

Pernell Roberts gives a stunningly beautiful and moving rendition of the same Shakespearean passage Adam quotes at Libby in this chapter.  I recommend you watch at  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SDuBvYkGuDM.

The “Lottery of Death,” with which Adam was threatened, did take place after his departure, on the morning of July 6.  The selected “winners” were Captain Henry Sawyer of New Jersey and Captain John M. Flynn of the 51^st Indiana.  At the intervention of a Catholic bishop, a 10-day stay of execution was granted, national outrage ensued, along with the threats of retaliation which Adam foresaw.  Fortunately, saner heads did prevail, and the condemned men were finally exchanged, although not until March of 1864.

Chapter 10

A Brief Respite from War

Adam didn’t wake until the cars jolted to a stop some hours later, having slept nightmare-free for the first time in days.  At first, he didn’t realize where he was, and he stumbled to his feet, hoping to get an early place at the latrines and the spigot for washing up, only to discover that those, too, were a thing of the past.  He had just started to reorient himself to the new reality when the side door to his railcar slid open and all its occupants were gruffly ordered out.  He exited to find himself again in a new world, this one filled with empty streets and cottages, topped with roofs shattered from some previous battle.  As he looked the other direction, a wide smile enveloped his face, for he saw a river—and boats, one topped with the United States flag, more precious than ever after his weeks under the rule of a different one.  “City Point,” he whispered in awe.  Freedom was almost close enough to touch now!

He turned to share his excitement with Dan, and for the first time realized that he wasn’t there.  No!  Surely, the Rebs hadn’t noticed his illness and taken charge of him.  Adam began to push through the ranks of other officers, searching frantically for his mate and finally discovered him, still near the open railcar.  “Thought I’d lost you,” he whispered as he fell in besides his mate.

“Left me in the dust in your hurry to get out,” Dan chided.  “Such insubordination will not be tolerated, sir—past today, that is.  All is forgivable on this auspicious day.”

“I take it you’re feeling better?”  Adam lowered his voice even more for the question which must on no account be overheard by a guard.

Dan responded at a similar level.  “Some.  Guess there are some benefits to enforced fasting.”

Adam grunted as he suddenly realized how empty his own belly was.  Hopefully, their enforced fast would be rectified soon.

The formalities of the exchange seemed to take forever, but within half an hour, the released prisoners were boarding the steamer James Brooks.  Each man was greeted with a salute as he reached the deck and handed two thick slices of bread and a hunk of ham to complete the welcome.  “Best go easy,” Adam advised, seeing Dan dig into the meat with gusto.

“I know,” Dan said, “but I can’t help myself.  It’s ham, Adam!”

Adam nodded, his own empty belly growling in agreement.  Cold ham and bread, but it felt like a feast after weeks of Confederate beef.  He tried to restrain himself, knowing it wasn’t wise, but in the end, he ate all he’d been given and hoped he could keep it down.

*****

Adam moved to the rail as the steamship slowly started down the James River.  At last!  After all the inevitable delays of moving 650 men, they were on their way out of the South with all its dubious charms.  He had to admit, however, that he hadn’t really had a chance to sample its true charms, at least until now.  The rural scene through which he was moving was, indeed, charming.  High banks on either side, thick with emerald trees and only slightly less verdant bushes closer to shore.  Through them, he spied beautiful examples of Southern architecture that were a feast to his eyes, until he thought of the forced labor that had created the beauty and supported the genteel lifestyle.  For all his high hopes of changing that when he’d enlisted, he and the whole blasted Union Army, had accomplished so little in that quest.  And for the last few weeks, confined behind stark gray walls, he’d had no thoughts whatsoever for any man’s liberty but his own.  Maybe he could pick it up again; maybe he’d never get the chance.  Bureaucracy being what it was, would his exchange become parole in time to fight another battle before his enlistment ended?  He wasn’t sure; nor was he sure he cared.  A sign of his exhaustion and physical depletion, probably, but for now he was content to steam down the river, gazing on the genuine charms of the South, and leave more serious concerns until he’d left Southern waters behind and set foot once more on Union soil.

Late that afternoon, they steamed past the historic location of Jamestown, a site Adam would have relished exploring in better times, although there wasn’t much left except an old church tower.  They’d barely started their journey, though, so they passed it without stopping.  They weren’t tourists, after all, and only a few hardy souls like Adam remained on deck to even give it a glance.  As the sun started to descend, its western rays painting the wake behind them rosy orange, Adam suddenly felt tired and decided he should find a bed before there weren’t any left.  Dan, due to the illness only worsened by his rapid consumption of the ham, had long since retired.  He’d even been given a comfortable stateroom, as had the also ailing Captain Livingstone—at Lieutenant-Colonel Merwin’s behest, Adam suspected.  Being among the most junior officers aboard, Adam had known not to expect such luxury for himself, but there were cots available on the lower deck, preferable to the hard floor at Libby any day!  He picked one that had a view of the setting sun and, arms folded beneath his head, watched it with contentment until they docked at Newport News and tied up for the night.  Then he rolled over and let the lapping of the water against the hull soothe him to sleep.

*****

The next morning found Adam back at the rail, gazing again on the passing scenery.  Breakfast had been simple, but satisfying, and the view was more so.  Something about the motion through the water was soothing and made him think of Pa and the fondness he’d always expressed for his life at sea.  This was far tamer, of course.  No crashing waves like those in Pa’s sea tales to disrupt the Sabbath peace, just a rippling flow and pleasant sights on either shore, but it was what his spirit craved.  Oh, the church spires of Norfolk, when they passed at a distance, were interesting, but Adam was too excited about leaving the James River behind and rounding Point Comfort into Chesapeake Bay to give the southern city more than a passing glimpse.  He left the rail for meals and once for a visit with Dan, but the peaceful vistas drew him back again and again until they finally dropped anchor for the night just off Taylor’s Island with the gratifying knowledge that they were, at last, securely back in the Union waters of Maryland.

*****

All day Monday, the 25^th they steamed steadily northward.  By late afternoon, as they neared their destination, almost every former prisoner of war was crowding the rail alongside Adam.  When Annapolis finally came into view, a shout of jubilation went up from every man on deck.  Here, at last, they would debark on Union soil once more, and each man felt he was finally safe, even if he was far from his home hearth.  None was further from his real home, of course, than Adam, though he shouted with equal fervor.  He tore himself away from the joyous clamor, however, and went in search of Dan.   Having been afflicted by sea sickness in addition to his other woes, Lieutenant Worthington had kept to his bed until the ship actually docked, but Adam found him scrambling to leave it and hurried forward to offer a supporting arm.

“Well, you didn’t abandon me, after all,” Dan groused.

Assuming his friend was joking, Adam responded in kind.  “Don’t tempt me,” he said with a scowl made playful by a waggle of his eyebrow.  Seeing Dan’s lopsided grin, he added, “I’ll see you safe off board, sir, but I’m not sure what they’ll do with you then.”

“Convalescent ward, probably,” Dan sighed.  “Well, I guess I can bear it . . . here.”

“Rest cure definitely in order,” Adam said as they slowly left the stateroom.  Much as he would have relished leaping off the boat among the first men, he knew it was better for his friend to hang back with those bringing up the rear.  Mindful of being an officer, though, every soldier debarked with dignity and order, and soon even the weakest among them was off the James Brooks and lined up for the march to Camp Parole, and whatever mysteries it might hold.  Though weak, Dan insisted on walking, but even the short distance winded him, and he was leaning heavily against Adam by the time they reached their destination.  There, he was immediately turned over to the medics and escorted into one of the buildings of what had been, before the war, St. John’s College.

The very fact that he was walking again on a college campus sent an excited pulse through every vein in Adam’s body.  It wasn’t Yale, but if his luck held out, it soon would be.  Just two more months, and if his parole took as long as the exchange had, he might never see another battlefield.  He had mixed feelings about that.  The cause that had originally sent him into the army hadn’t been won yet, especially for those who needed it most.  Neither, however, had the battles he had fought brought it any closer to the enslaved people of the South.  He’d like one more crack at that, but another part of him was weary of war and ready to set his sights on rebuilding a war-torn nation.  No use speculating, though.  The Army of the Potomac would make that decision for him, just as it held his immediate fate in its hands.

His most immediate fate turned out to be the divestment of every stitch of his clothing, which he did with supreme joy.  Burn the lice-ridden rags for all he cared!  Then, with no better alternative, he splashed naked into a tributary of the Severn River along with all his comrades and frolicked and scrubbed until every trace of Libby’s stench was washed away and they were all issued fresh, clean uniforms and assigned a tent to call their own during their sojourn here at Annapolis.

Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Merwin tried to gather the scattered members of the 27^th Connecticut and see them housed together.  As he assigned Adam to a tent with three officers of similar rank from other companies, Adam asked whether their enlisted men were still here on the college grounds.

“I’m going to check,” Merwin said, “and I’m glad to see that you’re thinking of them first, Lieutenant; it speaks well of you.”

“I do feel responsible for those in my company, sir,” Adam replied.  Especially, certain men among them, he added silently, with thoughts of Michael Bufford.

“As do I for the regiment, Lieutenant,” Merwin said, turning to process the next officer in line.

Another hour saw the exchanged men settled in their new quarters, enjoying their first decent meal in weeks.  Adam had just started to eat when he saw Lieutenant-Colonel Merwin approaching and immediately stood and saluted.

Merwin returned the salute, but said, “No form tonight, Lieutenant, and by all means continue your meal.  I just learned that our enlisted men were sent on to Convalescent Camp at Alexandria four days ago.”

Adam’s brow wrinkled in perplexity.  “Convalescent Camp, sir.  Were they in bad shape, then?”

Merwin smiled slightly.  “I don’t think so, Lieutenant.  I think it’s more due to overcrowding here.  Well, I knew you were interested, so I stopped by on the way to my own quarters and, hopefully, as good a meal as your neglected one appears to be.”

“Thank you, sir.  I appreciate your informing me,” Adam said, and though he’d been told there was no need to observe form, his respect for his superior officer made his salute of farewell seem essential.

*****

Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Adam set about finding supplies for what he considered his most urgent task.  Then, armed with pen and paper, he sat down under a tall elm budding with new life and began to write.  The first letter, of course, went to his father.  Mail service to Nevada being what it was, he wasn’t sure Pa would even know he had been captured yet, but chances were he did, or at least, knew that his regiment had been.  That much might have been telegraphed from eastern newspapers to publishers back home.  He’d have telegraphed himself if he’d had the funds!  But he didn’t.  Though assured that back wages would be sent here, that hadn’t happened yet, and telegrams were expensive to a man with as few greenbacks in his pockets as Adam now had.  Most of what he’d had on entering Libby had been spent on pencil and paper to set algebra problems for his students, as well as adding an occasional onion to his diet, in hopes of warding off scurvy.

Adam smiled as he recalled hearing Pa tout their value for that along the trail west long ago.  He thought of recounting how those early lessons had stood him in good stead, but quickly changed his mind.  The less said about the privations he’d endured in prison, the better.  No, he’d just assure Pa that he was well (mostly true) and would soon be safely out of the eastern conflict Pa had urged him to stay out of in the first place.

The next letter went to his closest friend, Jamie Edwards.  He assured him that he was uninjured and well and eager to return to his side at Yale.  Then it occurred to him that Jamie might have telegraphed news of his capture to Pa.  Suddenly feeling like an idiot, he struck his forehead with the heal of his hand.  He could get word to Pa!  He’d planned ahead for such needs months ago!  He quickly urged his friend to send another telegram on his behalf, to hasten the end of his father’s worries.  “Take the price of that from the funds I left with you,” Adam urged, “and tell him that a letter follows.”  Having corresponded between Nevada and Missouri for years, Jamie would well understand how long letters could take and would understand his urgent desire to shorten that time with the telegram.  He knew he could trust his friend to carry out his request as quickly as if it had been his own father anxiously awaiting word of his son’s welfare.

Not wanting to infringe on the postal privileges offered him, he didn’t write anyone else, but once he’d handed in his letters at the appropriate place, he had nothing to do except wait for lunch.  Still, it was a pleasant spring day, so he walked the grounds of the college and examined the architecture of its buildings with satisfaction.  He longed for a piece of drawing paper to sketch their lines, but didn’t want to ask for more than his actual needs required.  After weeks confined in such close quarters, just walking alone in the open air was refreshing, but he didn’t overdo it.  He didn’t want to miss the meal, simple soldiers’ rations as it was, so he headed back to his quarters, assuming (quite correctly) that he’d have ample time to continue his wanderings after lunch.

Other than brief visits with Dan, longer ones not being encouraged by the medical staff, wandering was about the only occupation he had over the next three days.  By their end, he felt he knew the college campus as well as he knew that of Yale, and while he still enjoyed the fresh air, he was getting tired of the relentless idleness.  No where to go, nothing to do.  Even Libby had offered better means of occupation!  Being an officer, he was free to walk into town, but he preferred to wait until his wages caught up to him and he could hopefully purchase something to stave off utter boredom.  Finally, on the fourth morning, the miracle happened, and cash in pocket, he set off in search of such treasures as a new book or even the drawing pad he’d craved on his first walk over the college grounds.

Thanks to the closeness of both the college and the Naval Academy, a bookstore wasn’t hard to find.  Selecting a book was more difficult, but with nothing but time on his hands, Adam was content to leisurely peruse all possibilities.  His eyes lit up when he saw a favorite from the summer before he enlisted, Les Misérables by Victor Hugo.  Since he already owned the book, at least in serialized parts, he bought the cheapest version of it he could find.  He could read it here in parole camp and easily leave it behind for another man.    His second choice was a book new to him, No Name by Wilkie Collins.  After he paid for them and a copy of the local newspaper, he asked the clerk about the possibility of purchasing drawing paper in town and was directed to a store that met his desires in that department.  Then, on the way out of town, he had a sudden inspiration to stop by a grocer’s shop and indulged in a small purchase of fruit and nuts, to be shared with his new tentmates, although he couldn’t resist biting into a crisp apple on the walk back to camp.

*****

Sunday dawned to peace and quiet and beautiful weather.  Somewhere in camp, worship services were being conducted, but Adam elected to spend that morning in paying his first lieutenant and friend a charitable visit.  He took both his book purchases along, intending to let Dan choose which he would like to hear.  Instead, he found his offer rejected with a glum face.  “Better not start anything we can’t finish,” Dan sighed.  “They’re shipping me out to Convalescent Camp tomorrow.  The captain, too.  Doubtful we’ll make it out of that in time for any action before we muster out.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Adam said, “but at least, you’ll be with our men again and able to see how they’re doing.”

“I can tell you already,” Dan groused.  “They’ll be bored, same as me.”

“In that case, pick one of these books and take it with you,” Adam suggested.

“Oh, I couldn’t deprive you,” Dan said, though his eyes spoke a different message.

“Sure, you could,” Adam said.  “Only takes a walk into town to replace whichever you choose, and goodness knows, I can spare the time, given the do-nothing-to-aid-the-war rule that prevails until I’m officially paroled.”  Some men, he’d learned, were stretching that rule to refusing activities as benign as standing guard over their own camp, but he thought that attitude reflected nothing but laziness.  “Pick whichever you like, and we can start it today.”

Interest sparked in Dan’s eyes, but he said, “You pick.  I know nothing about either one.”

No surprise there, Adam thought, restraining his twinkle of amusement, but he only said, “Well, I’ll recommend Les Misérables, then.  It will last you longer, and since I’ve read it before, I know you’ll find it filled with enough action to hold the flightiest interest.”

“Trust you to offer dessert with a topping of vinegar,” Dan muttered, but both the dart and the smile with which he followed it told Adam that his friend was beginning to feel a bit more like himself.  He opened the book and began to read.

*****

With Dan’s departure the next day, Adam felt that the one act of useful service had been erased from his daily routine.  Oh, he could have visited other sick soldiers, he supposed, but it wasn’t a duty he felt much suited to.  For a friend, he could overcome his natural inclination to avoid the sick room, but for strangers?  No, he told himself, only duty could compel that, and his sense of duty wasn’t that strong.  He didn’t have the kind of universal benevolence in his nature that motivated someone like his friend Jamie Edwards.  So, he spent his days, each like the one before and the one after it, in reading, walking and sketching buildings.

He and his tentmates took turns walking into town for a daily newspaper, and by common consent, Adam was usually the one elected to read to the others.  Even he found it hard to infuse much excitement into news that tended to be little different from that of the day before.  They were most excited about the news of the western campaign, where General Grant’s siege of Vicksburg showed promise of success.  News of their own Army of the Potomac dwelt more on failures of the past.  Two months gone, and the newspapers were still rehashing the defeat at Chancellorsville!  No one had to tell them how badly that had gone.  And they didn’t need reprints from newspapers like the far-off London Times to tell them how General Hooker’s plans had failed.  They knew better than anyone.  Give us a Grant any day! Adam thought, but was there anyone like that Lincoln could call on?  Doubtful, and the President must be reluctant to dismiss yet another commander when he’d already tried three—McClellan, Burnside and Hooker—without finding a leader in the bunch.

Adam expected nothing different when he walked into town on the 10^th of June.  He was nearly finished with his remaining book and hoped to find another and to replenish his stock of fruit and nuts.  All thought of those vanished, however, when he entered the town and saw the townspeople thronging the main street, filling the air with agitated chatter.  He caught one man by the arm and raised his voice enough to ask what the uproar was about.

“Rebs is comin’!” the man shouted, jerking his arm free.  “Jeb Stuart crossed the Rappahannock—headed here!”

“Here?” Adam asked, incredulous, but the man was already racing down the street.  Adam walked swiftly to the nearest newsstand and purchased a paper.  Normally, he would have waited until he returned to camp to read it, but if they were truly being invaded by the South, he needed to know.  It wasn’t hard to find what he wanted.  The first-page headline proclaimed: The Bold Rebel Raid.  In only slightly smaller print, the news declared the presence of a large cavalry force with General Jeb Stuart in command, proposing the devastation of Maryland, Pennsylvania and other northern states.  Supposedly, 15,000 to 20,000 horse soldiers were poised to cross the Potomac, and indeed might have already done so, given the delay in receipt of this news.  Undoubtedly, that number was exaggerated, Adam thought, but the citizens’ panic was justified.  Maryland was only across the river from the Confederate state of Virginia.  Annapolis, of course, would not be the primary target.  Once the Rebels crossed the river, the national capital in Washington, D. C., would be in imminent danger, and every exchanged soldier in the camp would share that concern.  Folding the paper and eschewing all other errands, Adam raced back to camp as fast as he could trot.

At first his tentmates were disappointed to see him return with nothing but a newspaper.  However, as soon as they heard the news, the tent was abuzz with questions.  How would this affect their status?  Would they be paroled more quickly, so they could fight off this new and more personal threat?  Or would the South refuse all exchanges, so as to diminish the fighting force of the North?  Surely, they wouldn’t be expected to sit out this fight when their own country was being invaded, when their very homes, might be at stake!  The news, filtering from their own tent, as well as from other men returning from town with newspapers, spread through camp like wildfire, and senior officers were hard put to quell the uproar.

For Adam, at least, some of the questions would be answered that evening.  Shortly after supper, Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Merwin approached Adam and asked to speak with him privately.  After they had walked some distance from other soldiers, the superior officer turned and said, “I’m being paroled, Lieutenant Cartwright.”

“You’ll be rejoining the Army of the Potomac, then, sir?” Adam queried, all the time wondering why Merwin was specifically informing him.

“I will.”  Merwin paused briefly and continued, “And, if you’re willing, I would like to take you with me.”

For a moment Adam didn’t know what to say.  After all, willing had nothing to do with it.  If he was ordered to go, he had no choice but to acquiesce.  Only one thing puzzled him, and without thinking how it might sound, he asked the chief question on his mind.  “Why me, sir?”

A surprised laugh burst from the Lieutenant-Colonel.  “Are you saying you wish I hadn’t picked you?  If so, I may have misjudged you, Lieutenant Cartwright.”

Adam straightened abruptly, barely resisting the temptation to salute.  “No, sir!” he said.  “I am honored to be selected, but I had assumed from your opening that not everyone was being paroled, and I wondered why you would choose me for that honor.”

“That’s better,” Merwin replied, lips still twitching.  “You are quite correct: I can’t take everyone with me, even as few men as we have left in the 27^th.  I’ve been watching you, Lieutenant.  You have carried yourself well during our confinement at Libby and, even here, you have shown leadership qualities and concern for the men under you.  In short, you are the sort of man I want by my side in what will probably be our last fight before mustering out.  So, again, are you willing or should I look for another?”

This time Adam did salute.  “I’m willing, sir!” he said firmly.

“Good.  Be ready to march at dawn tomorrow.”

*****

Even though the paroled officers traveled partway by rail, the journey was long, and the sun was sinking by the time they caught up with Hooker’s forces on the Rappahannock River.  Lieutenant-Colonel Merwin, the highest-ranking officer in the absence an ailing Colonel Bostwick, gathered the few who’d traveled with him.  “As you know,” he began, “Companies D & F were not captured with us.  We’ll cobble a third together from the remnants that remain of any others and designate it Company H.  You will be in charge of that, Captain Chapman.”  After Jedediah Chapman acknowledged his assignment, Merwin turned to the lieutenants, placing each where he thought him most needed.  Adam, who would be with Chapman, asked his new captain if he had immediate orders.

“Take a count of the men available in our new company, Lieutenant,” Chapman advised, “and arrange some sort of housing for us tonight.  If adjustments are needed, they can wait for morning.”

“Yes, sir,” Adam said, saluting.  He set out then to find the men who belonged to some company other than D or F.  As he was making his round of the camp on that search, he heard someone call his first name and turned toward the sound, his face alight with joy as he saw the familiar face.  “Marcus!” he cried, and regardless of propriety between their differing ranks, he enfolded his friend in his arms.  “So, you made it off sick call.”

“Long ago,” Marcus scoffed, “but you made it out of something much worse, sir.”

Adam shivered involuntarily.  “Indeed, but the less said about that experience the better.  Are you fully recovered, then, fit for battle?”

“Fully,” Marcus assured him.  Then he lowered his voice and asked, “Will there be a battle, sir?  We had orders three days ago to be prepared to march at any time, but no word since.  Perhaps you know?”

“Only what I read in the newspaper,” Adam said.  “That indicates an invasion could be underway, but nothing specific yet.”  He clapped the other man on the shoulder.  “No point in speculation tonight.  I’ve got to arrange housing for the officers who arrived with me before lights out.”

“There’s room for one in my tent,” Marcus said shyly, “and we’d be honored to have you, sir, unless the officers want to stay together.”

“I want to arrange a separate tent for our new captain, even if it requires some reshuffling,” Adam said, “but I’d be very pleased to share a tent with you again, corporal, at least for tonight.”  A new thought suddenly struck him.  “Is James Brand here?”

Marcus smiled.  “He is, and since he was originally in Company I, he’ll be under your command now, too.”

“Good,” Adam said, well satisfied to have these old comrades so close.  Then he thought of another and asked, “And what of Sergeant Breckinridge?  Did he make it back?”

Marcus shook his head.  “I’ve had no word of him, sir; don’t even know if he’s alive.”

“He was,” Adam told him.  “Alive, but wounded.  Probably not recovered enough to return to duty if you haven’t seen him.  Not many of us left, I understand.”

“Less than a company’s worth in the entire regiment,” Marcus said sadly.  “The 27^th is all but gone, sir.”

Adam shook his head.  Under a hundred men, then.  A mere fraction of the number that had left New Haven almost nine months before.  Approximately one out of eight either dead, wounded or trapped in the limbo of parole camp.  “Come on,” he said to Marcus.  “Let’s see if we can’t find places for the other officers.

It proved to be an easier task than Adam had expected.  Their numbers were small now, and the news that there were new officers in the camp spread as fast as if each man had his own telegraph wire direct from headquarters.  Therefore, the affected men congregated quickly, but their response to Adam’s request lagged by comparison.  Sleeping with an officer in their tent was unheard of and, frankly, intimidating. “Come on, men; it’s just for one night,” Adam urged, “and we promise not to bite—or snore too loudly.”

After a brief pause, one man stepped forward, and Adam smiled directly into the face of his old friend from Yale, James Brand.  Saluting, Brand said, “The men of my tent would like to offer it to the officers, sir.  We can find places among the other enlisted men, I’m sure.”

“Much appreciated, Sergeant,” Adam said.  “If there’s anything I can do to expedite your placement, please ask.”

“I can handle it, sir,” Brand said, and Adam didn’t doubt it for a minute.  Jim had always commanded respect at Yale, and Adam was confident that the same had proven true in the army, as well.  His confidence was vindicated when, well before lights out, each man and officer had a tent over his head.  Since there was now room for him in the tent Brand and his comrades had volunteered, Adam felt he had to decline Marcus’s kind offer for the night.  “Much as I would have enjoyed a good conflab,” he told his friend quietly.

“Perhaps Jim and I can have one,” Marcus said, “since I still have room in my tent for one of the displaced men.”

Adam wagged a discrete finger beneath his friend’s nose.  “Taunting a superior officer is considered unwise, soldier.”  Lowering his voice, he added, “It won’t be much longer, Marc, before we stand on equal ground again back at dear old Yale.  I look forward to that.”

“Not much longer, sir,” Marcus agreed, although he thought it would be hard to drop the “sir” with a man he’d come to respect so much during their time in the 27^th Connecticut.

*****

In a pattern Adam had come to see as all too normal, the next three days proved the army accusation of “hurry up and wait,” but at least it gave him time to catch up with old friends and form new bonds with unfamiliar officers.  He might not have been sharing a tent with his friends, but he still spent most of his free hours with Marcus and Jim, each speculating on their return to Yale, only about a month away now, and how hard it would be to leave the battlefield behind and take up their studies again.  “It won’t be the same,” Marcus feared.  “I don’t know if I can be that innocent schoolboy again after all this.

“It won’t be the same,” Jim said, “but perhaps the better appreciated for all we’ve experienced here.”

“Perhaps,” Adam conceded, though he suspected that he, like Marcus, would find the adjustment hard.  Back in New Haven, when he’d first enlisted, Jamie had jokingly called him “soldier boy,” but no one could live through what the last eight months had handed him and come out a boy.  He was a man now, with other men looking to him for leadership, and that sense of responsibility rose up in him now.  “No,” he corrected himself with firm decision.  “Not perhaps.  We shall definitely be better men for the experience, and the education we receive when we return shall prepare us better still to make this country better, as well.”

“Hear, hear!” Jim proclaimed, and Marcus echoed the same in the quieter voice that was natural to him.

Near the close of the third day orders finally came to move out, amidst ongoing, though still nonspecific rumors, that Lee’s Confederates were beginning an invasion of the North.  After a march of only two hours, they halted at Banks’ Ford, and three regiments of Brooke’s brigade were sent out as pickets and to occupy crossroads in advance of the rest of the army.  The 27^th Connecticut was not involved; indeed, there were scarcely enough of them to detail to any major effort.  The last count Adam had put them at only 75 men, hardly enough to make an impact on whatever lay ahead.  However daunting the odds, though, they were expected to do their duty, to lay down their lives if necessary.  Adam only hoped that if it came to that, his sacrifice would make, at least, some difference to the cause for which he’d enlisted.  It had been hard to hang onto that inspiration while incarcerated in Libby Prison.  Now, in the face of impending battle, he found it rising inside him again.

*****

The army’s rest was brief.  At 1:30 a.m. on the 15^th of June, they were ordered to abandon the ford at once and move to Stafford Courthouse, where the rest of the II Corps was waiting for them.  Brooke’s brigade now formed the rear guard of the army marching north to counter Lee’s advance into Union territory.  They made it as far as Acquia Creek, where, as a raw recruit, Adam had first linked up with the Army of the Potomac and bivouacked there for the night.  Long past the time he arrived, stragglers, slowed by the sweltering heat of the Virginia summer, staggered in.

The soldiers were up early the next morning and marching again at 6 a.m.  At least, the early start afforded them some relief from the heat, though combined with the humidity from the paralleling Potomac River, it soon became oppressive.  Adam and all those under him were grateful when the march was called to a halt about two that afternoon just after crossing over the Occoquan River.

Turning slightly northwest, they marched only until noon the next day.  Then they rested two days, to what purpose Adam could only wonder.  The men needed it, of course.  Marching in the sultry heat was hard work, but if the Union actually were in danger of invasion, could they afford to stop this long?  And why here?  The nation’s capital now lay northeast of them, so weren’t they going the wrong way?  Where was Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia, anyway?  Was the Army of the Potomac just meandering aimlessly, hoping to come across them?

The questions in his mind pervaded the ranks, as well, and rumors flared, as they always did when men had nothing to do but gossip—well, march and gossip, in this case.  Some said Hooker had lost his courage back at Chancellorsville and was holding back, in hopes of arriving too late to join any fight.  Others complained that officials in Washington were hiding under their beds, too scared of Bobby Lee to come out.  Those slightly more optimistic thought a battle was surely imminent, but feared they might miss it.  Still others hoped they would.  What could they do, anyway, with their small force, against the reported thousands of Lee’s army?

The last question Adam put to silence as soon as he heard it.  “What we can do,” he said with his sharpest tone, “is our duty, and,” he added in a more encouraging tone, “I’m confident that we will!”  So long as the rumors didn’t threaten morale, however, he let the men talk.  They needed some outlet for the restless energy fear of the unknown always sparked.

A better outlet was found in the numerous cherry trees that lined the roadways, and the layover provided ample time for the men to sample the ripe fruit.  A number of them, starving for fresh fruit almost to the point of scurvy, overindulged and lay down at night with protesting bellies, and, for some, the loose bowels of dysentery.  Adam schooled himself to eat more prudently, slowly savoring each luscious and juicy mouthful.  He, after all, had leadership responsibilities, and he wouldn’t risk compromising them for a whole bucketful of cherries, although he could easily and happily have eaten that much.  After the deprivations of Libby, he had an absolute craving for fresh fruit, but his desire to finish his service with honor was stronger than his appetite.

On June 19, the II Corps again began to march, halting after three and a half hours at Centreville.  The next day brought them past Manassas, where two early battles of the war had been fought and lost.  The scene was gruesome, bleached bones of hands reaching out from shallow graves to remind each man of his possible fate.  Someone, in dark humor, had placed a bullet-pierced skull, with the skin still attached, on a tree stump to stand guard over the dead.

They continued west, marching twenty miles in driving rain and finally arrived at Thoroughfare Gap at ten that night.  Soaked, they collapsed in their tents, but Adam had ample time to explore the new location the next morning, as his brigade was detached here to guard the gorge in the Blue Ridge Mountains.  Its well-wooded sides were almost perpendicular, and he took in the wildness of its view with a sense of refreshing.  Brooke’s brigade would remain there four restful days, the officers possibly needing it more than the enlisted men.  None of them, after all, had endured the debilitating weeks in prison and parole camp.  Still, they hadn’t made forced marches in months, either, and everyone was justifiably tired.

There was a sense of something important happening soon, so they welcomed the orders to fall in at an early hour and evacuate the gap on the 25th.  It was good they’d had those days of rest, though, for after reaching Edwards Ferry and crossing the Potomac River at midnight, they would have three days of continuous marching up the valley of the Monocacy River, each day’s march feeling longer than the previous day’s.  One question remained uppermost in every man’s mind: where was Robert E. Lee?

That question, however, was superseded by an even greater one when they finally arrived at Uniontown, Pennsylvania, after a march of thirty-two miles.  “Again?” Marcus squeaked when he heard the news, a reaction Adam quickly squelched, though he was equally dismayed at learning that the Army of the Potomac had yet another change of commander.  In one way, of course, it was welcome.  No one had much confidence in Joe Hooker anymore, but this new man, General George Meade, was not an officer with whom he was familiar.  Was he a Grant or a Burnside?  Whatever his caliber, he’d have an arduous task ahead of him and not much time to prepare for the new responsibilities that rumor said he’d been reluctant to accept.

Grant’s adjustment time would be shorter than Adam realized.  Two days later, on July 1^st, Union and Confederate forces would converge on a little town in Pennsylvania called Gettysburg.

 

Chapter 11

The Battle is Joined

Having earned high praise from their commander for enduring the grueling march of the last few days, the men of Brooke’s brigade welcomed the slower pace with which they then moved northward.  The countryside was green with spring growth, and the neat vine-covered cottages, so different from both the palatial homes of plantation owners and the squalid homes of poorer families down south, were reminders of home to northern soldiers.  Adam’s log home, back in Nevada, looked even more different, of course, but he, too, felt nostalgic as he recalled how Marie had trained greenery onto the porch roof of the Ponderosa.  Along the way residents rushed out to greet them, sweet-faced young girls offering cold water and loaves of fresh-baked bread in gratitude for their rescue from the dreaded southern army.  The only hindrance to their enjoyment of the pastoral scene and exuberant welcome was the daily rain which first cooled and then left insufferable humidity in its wake, as well as deeper mud through which to slog.

By the 29^th, however, haste was again the order of the day.  They weren’t even permitted to remove their shoes and socks when crossing the Monocacy River, which made for soggy marching afterwards.  Thankfully, they spent the entire day of the 30^th camped at Uniontown, and equally welcome, the paymaster arrived, giving even the stragglers incentive to catch up and take their place in the ranks.  Some local citizens held a ball that night, and a few men, mostly staff officers, danced into the wee hours.  The majority, Adam among them, were content to rest and dream of what they’d do with their newly drawn pay once they got back to “civilization.”

The men who rested were the wise ones, for they all were ordered into reveille formation at dawn and issued three days’ rations and sixty rounds of ammunition. The new month opened on the first rain-free day in a week, and the roads were macadamized, which made for an easy seven-mile march to Taneytown, just below the Pennsylvania state line.  Here they were greeted once again by grateful citizens of the lovely little village, waving handkerchiefs and throwing flowers at their feet, as impromptu choirs of pretty girls sang patriotic songs.

They rested for a few hours, unaware that the battle had already begun until distant cannon fire rumbled in their ears.  About six that evening they were up and moving again.  General Hancock, as ordered, hurried them along until they were within three or four miles of Gettysburg.  The II Corps leader himself soon was ordered ahead to take command of the entire battle, at least until Meade could arrive.  Good news and bad, Adam thought, as he urged his men along.  He had the greatest confidence in Hancock’s leadership, as, apparently, did the new leader of the Army of the Potomac.  However, the fact that he was needed on the battlefield meant there had already been high-ranking casualties . . . and no doubt many more among the enlisted men, who always bore the brunt of battle.  He pressed his own company forward until they reached a point just south of a hill called Round Top, where they were ordered to throw up intrenchments.  They finished by midnight, just in time to see General Meade arrive.  His opinion that this was a good place to fight seeped down the line, and with that reassurance, they finally slept.

Adam, however, found it hard to settle, his mind a cyclone of conjectures about what the coming day would bring.  He finally got up and slipped out of the tent, ostensibly to relieve himself, but actually to quiet his racing thoughts.  Not a breath of wind stirred, as he climbed a short distance up the boulder-strewn hill to his north.  From that vantage he could see the campfires of the Confederate Army, stretching from southwest to northeast, just across the valley.  Clear in the light of the full moon, he saw the rotting remains of the day’s battle littered across the landscape and wondered whether he’d be among them by this day’s end.  Then he grinned a bit wryly as he realized this post-midnight outing was doing nothing to quiet his overactive brain.

He sobered again, and though he wasn’t a praying man, he prayed that night, not in words, but in the yearning of his heart.  Somewhat to his surprise, what he yearned for in that moment was not the immediate goal of living through the battle or the oh-so-close one of returning to Yale.  As they had when he faced the Lottery of Death in Libby, his yearnings reached all the way across the continent, to those he loved best, to Pa and Hoss and Little Joe.  His prayer, when he finally whispered actual words, was brief: get me home.

*****

Though Adam had slept only a couple of hours, he was up by dawn on July 2^nd, and the blazing red of the sun reminded him of the old sailors’ adage he’d learned from his father: red sky in the morning; sailors take warning.  Did the warning only concern the weather or, more symbolically, might it apply to what lay ahead?  Though it had rained again during the night, the sky overhead was clear except for a few fleecy clouds.  Only a soft breeze from the southwest kept the air from being perfectly calm.  The calm before the storm of battle, perhaps? Adam pondered as he got his men up.   He led them down the rough and narrow Taneytown Road to their newly assigned position to the north of another hill.  This one, about 100 feet lower than the one by which they’d camped the previous night, was less rocky, but more wooded.  As they settled in, there was just a hint of the heat to come, but the air, still heavy with moisture, promised to grow muggier as the sun rose to its zenith.

That whole morning was spent anticipating imminent attack, but the only signs—or, rather, sounds—of it were far to the right of the tiny contingent of the 27^th Connecticut.  Sporadic fire of pickets and skirmishers was punctuated with the occasional boom of cannon, but for a battlefield, it was surprisingly quiet.  Colonel Brooke, however, had reminded his officers that they were facing a desperate emergency and urged them to exert every energy to a successful outcome of the conflict.  Still, it was hard to maintain that sense of urgency when they were doing nothing.  Harder still when they were doing it on empty stomachs since on their forced march to the front, the supply wagons carrying their rations hadn’t been able to keep up.

Recalling a lesson learned on his march to Libby Prison, Adam gathered the men of his company and urged them to search their pockets and haversacks and pool their resources, such as they were.  They scarcely found enough hardtack to matter, but they managed to come up with enough coffee for each man to have a swallow or two.  Little as it was, it seemed to invigorate them.  Beyond that, Adam felt that the best he could do was demonstrate watchfulness himself, and he found the best vantage point he could for that purpose.  He could almost see the entire Army of the Potomac stretching to his right atop a long ridge that ran south, toward him, from the town’s cemetery.  In front of him, to the west, lay a valley, some of it planted with golden stalks of near-harvest wheat. Beyond that was another wooded ridge from which he expected at any time to see the gray-clad soldiers of the Confederacy emerge.

Hours dragged by.  The sun rose to its zenith in an unclouded sky, offering no cover from its blistering heat.  Still no rations; still no action, just the sound of intermittent fire far to their right.  Some men fell asleep; some chattered away their nerves; a few smoked and everyone sweated.  Adam detailed three men, each carrying multiple canteens, to go for water behind the lines.

In mid-afternoon, everything changed.  Still trying to stay alert, though he secretly thought those who slept might be better prepared for battle if it ever came, Adam was one of the first to notice the troops moving in front of him.  He could scarcely believe his eyes, for the men of the III Corps, posted directly to the left of their division, were advancing down the western slope of their ridge, through the sparse woods below them, into a large wheatfield just below their position.  Their band was playing and their flags flying as if they were performing a grand review for the President himself.  Were they mad?

“Judging by their colors, they’re Sickles’ men, aren’t they?” asked a voice at his side.

Recognizing the voice, Adam didn’t turn, but continued to stare at Sickles’ soldiers.  “Yeah,” he said and with a shake of his head, he asked aloud the same question that had been in his thoughts moments before.  “Is he mad, Jim?”

“Maybe he wanted higher ground,” Brand suggested, pointing out a small peach orchard beyond the wheatfield.

“It’s no more than a dozen feet higher,” Adam scoffed.  Then his eyes narrowed with alarm as he noted the half-mile gap between Sickles’ corps and his own.  “The fool!” he said.  “He’s left our left flank hanging in the air!”  He pressed his lips tightly together to prevent further disrespect of a superior officer; then he said quietly, with a hand pressed to his friend’s shoulder, “Best get back to your color guard, sergeant.  We may see action soon.”  The decision wasn’t his to make, of course, but unless Meade was as incompetent as those who’d gone before him, he’d recognize the danger that half-mile gap represented.  Obviously, the most likely soldiers to send in to plug it would be his own division of the II Corps.  Word quickly spread through the division, and men crowded the ridge to watch the drama unfold and wonder when the action might include them.

The Rebels also realized the opportunity that had been handed to them and opened fire with artillery.  Soon cannonballs were bombarding Cemetery Ridge. Sickles’ Corps now bulged out from the main Union line and made themselves vulnerable from three sides.  Confederate troops overran their position with the force of an oncoming tornado, and whole regiments fell before the onslaught.  From the crest of the ridge, Federal cannon, in return, blasted round after round of solid shot and deadly cannister, hitting both friend and foe, so closely enmeshed.

Trust Hancock to see what needed to be done and do it!  He ordered Caldwell to get his division ready, and Caldwell relayed the order to his brigade commanders.  Down the chain of command, officers bristled with activity, all the way to Adam, who had the men of his company form behind their stacked rifles, take arms and await the order to move.  They might be the smallest company in the smallest regiment in the smallest brigade under Caldwell’s command, but he ensured that each man was ready to play his part.

For the longest time, it seemed that all they would do was wait, as the noise of the battle to their left grew louder and men fell like scythed stalks in the field of golden wheat below them.  Then, in anticipation of what was to come, a Catholic priest mounted a three-foot-high boulder close to the soldiers of the Irish Brigade to offer general absolution from any sins they might be carrying into battle.  As each Irishmen knelt on his right knee and bowed his head, he took off his cap, holding it in his left hand, while his right held his rifle.  A number of soldiers who were not of that faith also doffed their caps and bowed their heads, wanting to prepare their own hearts for possible entry into eternity.  Adam stayed upright and alert, but he could hear the priest’s words and was especially astounded by his conclusion: “The Catholic Church refuses Christian burial to the soldier who turns his back upon the foe or deserts his flag.”  Hard words, but perhaps combined with the promise of heaven, it would help spur those men on to greater effort.  Not, Adam thought, remembering their bravery in the face of the stone wall at Fredericksburg, that the Irish soldiers had ever needed anything to spur their courage.

For a moment Adam wished he had something to spur his own.  Much as he respected his mother Marie’s faith, however, it wasn’t his own.  His heart clenched as he remembered once again that he had never called her mother when she could actually hear it.  Then he smiled softly.  If there was a heaven (and he believed there was), then she knew now and was smiling down on him in forgiveness for his youthful reluctance.  It was all the absolution he needed, but in his heart he thanked the Catholic priest who had served as a catalyst for his own revelation.

Suddenly, there was no more time for thoughts and revelations.  The whole brigade began moving, not taking time to file off by regiment, as usual, but simply facing left and marching, each brigade in a solid block.  Heading southwest, they descended the front slope of Cemetery Ridge and marched through open fields toward some farm buildings.  Then they splashed through the waters of Plum Run and halted before a road that ran on the edge of the wheatfield.  From here, each brigade was fed into the ripening wheat one at a time: first Cross’s brigade, then Kelly’s Irishmen and finally Zook’s men.  The five small regiments of Brooke’s brigade were held on the east side of the road, however, because the wheatfield was too small to accommodate the entire division at once.  So, all Adam could do for the time being was stand and watch others fight, knowing that his time would come.  Waiting, he thought, not for the first time, was the hardest part of soldiering.

The fighting was fierce, and Adam could see it all, until the gunfire threw such a haze of smoke over the twenty-acre wheatfield that it obscured everything and he could only follow the progress of the battle with his ears.  Shells burst, cannons bellowed, men swirled first one direction and then another, as if caught in a whirlpool in a mighty river.  It was barely possible to tell blue from gray, but occasionally some regiment’s colors could be seen proudly held as the men it represented surged backwards and forwards, through the wheat, into the alders bordering the field, up and over a rail fence next to a stone wall.  Adam’s jaw tightened as he recognized the colors of the 10^th Georgia, the regiment that had captured him at Chancellorsville and sent him to Libby Prison.  He could hardly wait for a chance to avenge that!

Suddenly, it came.  The First Brigade ran out of ammunition, and Brooke’s men marched into the melee in their place.  As Adam descended the slope into the wheatfield, he realized that he would be fighting in what was essentially a giant punch bowl, the advantage resting with those firing from its rim down into the bowl.  That bowl was so filled with the smoke-haze of battle it was all but impossible to see clearly.  Still, the seventy-five members of the 27^th Connecticut pressed on, crossing a road that ran about halfway through the wheatfield and ascending a slight rise that only made them more vulnerable.

Colonel Brooke ordered them to halt.  “Fire at will!” he shouted, and the men did, as fast as they could load, fire and reload.  After about five minutes of fierce exchange, the Colonel ordered them to fix bayonets and charge.  Adam knew then that the fighting would be at close quarters, closer than it had been in their entire nine months of service.  The thought of plunging the long blade into the flesh of another man sickened him, but for him, as well as the other soldiers, the hours of drill during winter camp made obedience to the order automatic.  Would he hesitate once routine became reality?  There wasn’t time to question.  Only time to move forward and pray his ammunition held out.

Ignoring the bullets coming their way, the soldiers moved down the decline at the double-quick and up to the rim on the other side.  They pressed through the wheat and the woods beyond, driving the Confederates back a quarter mile, where they crossed a small branch of water at the base of a ravine and continued up a steep, rocky incline to its crest.  Adam saw Jim Brand and the rest of the color guard rush to the top and triumphantly plant their company’s flag, but he had little time to relish the sight.  Obeying his order to use the shelter of the hill’s brow to reload, the men of his new company responded to his shout of “Fire!” by rising up and letting loose a hail of bullets, then ducking beneath the brow to do it again and again.  At some point Adam became aware that not all the men following his orders were members of the 27^th Connecticut, for in the confusion of battle and the hazy atmosphere, some had lost contact with their own regiments.  He was glad to have them since he suspected some of his own company were equally lost and now fighting with other troops.  Hopefully fighting, hopefully still able to, but he couldn’t worry about them now.

For nearly thirty minutes they peppered the enemy, advancing and being pushed back again and again.  Then the brigades who had entered the wheatfield before them ran short of ammunition and fell back, and both flanks of Brooke’s brigade were threatened.  With no choice in the enfilading fire, they, too, withdrew, taking with them the colors which had flown bravely, but briefly over the field of battle.  It was a grim withdrawal through crushed stalks of wheat, now littered with arms, legs, heads and other dismembered body parts.  They managed to carry away most of their wounded, a victory in the whirlpool of confusion that would forever afterward be known as the Bloody Wheatfield.

Back on Cemetery Ridge as night fell, they lined up for roll call and counted their losses: eleven killed, including the captain under whom Adam had served for mere days, Jedediah Chapman, and the commanding officer he had come to respect so much, Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Merwin.  Four men were missing, possibly prisoners, and twenty-three wounded, including his brigade leader, Colonel John Brooke, though he had only sustained a serious, but not life-threatening injury to the left ankle.  Also among the wounded, to Adam’s more personal concern, was his friend and schoolmate, Marcus Whitmore.

Adam made his way to the hospital tent behind the lines as soon as his other duties were discharged and the men of his smaller-than-ever company seen to.  When he was denied entry, he objected so vociferously and unceasingly that those in charge apparently decided it was taking more time to deny him than to give in.  “Five minutes.  No more,” he was firmly told.

“Yes, sir!” Adam agreed promptly.  Whether he kept that promise or not would depend, of course, on what was best for Marc, but, at least, he would satisfy himself that his friend was receiving good care and had no needs he himself could supply.

He walked softly among the wounded until he found the cot where Marc was lying and was startled to find his friend’s cheeks damp with tears.  To some, Marc might seem almost girlish, with his soft features and gentle ways, but Adam had observed him at close quarters during their time in the army and knew him to be a stout-hearted man.  “Hey, Marc,” he said quietly.

“Oh, Adam,” Marc moaned.  “They want to take my arm.  D-don’t let them.”

Adam pursed his lips, knowing the danger of gangrene for injuries treated in the field.  “Marc,” he said, his voice softer still.  “If they think . . .”

“No!” Marc cried, fastening an iron grip on Adam’s arm with his left hand.  “I can’t, Adam.  I-I’ll never draw again.

All the life-like sketches he’d seen over the last few months flashed through Adam’s memory.  Surely, such talent wouldn’t—couldn’t be thwarted.  “You will,” he insisted.

“How?” came the bitter query as Marc’s hand dropped.

Adam quickly clasped it.  With tightened grip and through an even tighter throat, he said, “With this.”

Marc’s voice was weaker this time, and he almost whimpered as he said, “I’m right-handed, Adam.”

“I know, Marc, I know.”  Adam’s voice choked for a moment, knowing how hard what he was about to propose would be.  Then he said firmly, “You’ll learn to use the left.”  To lighten the moment, he said.  “After all, you were always a good student . . . except for math.”

Marc’s rough-edged laugh ended in a hiccup.  “You really think so?”

“I do.”  He had no opportunity to say more, for one of the medical officers approached and said firmly, “It’s time to leave, lieutenant.  You’ve had your five minutes.”

Adam didn’t argue this time, just gave Marc’s left hand another bolstering squeeze and said to the officer, “Take care of him.  He’s a good man.”

“We will,” the officer responded.  Not unkindly, he gestured toward the exit with his head and Adam left.

He walked back to his regiment’s new position under a full moon that cast a warm, golden light over the confusion below.  As he made his way through the huge tangle of men, animals and equipment, his ears were assaulted by the cries of the wounded still on the field.  Isolated gunfire erupted, whenever some soldier sighted one in the opposing uniform, until it became too dark to discern one from another. With the coming of twilight, it slowly ceased, and he passed ambulances and stretcher parties, bearing yet more wounded down the eastern side of the ridge.  When will it ever end, and where will they find to put them?  he wondered.  The hospital tent, as well as every house and barn in the area, was already full of wounded men.

He was surprised and chagrinned to realize that he didn’t care.  He couldn’t, though, not about the many, not with his thoughts riveted on the one he’d just left.  Had he been honest with his friend or only given him false hope?  Could a man really change his handedness and still draw as Marc had drawn before?  Suddenly, he felt unsure.  But it could mean Marc’s life if the surgeons left that wound to fester.  On the other hand, what was mere life if the joy had gone out of it?  He thought of his own pleasure in completing an architectural sketch.  It would half kill him to be deprived of that, but his was only a skill, not genuine artistic talent like Marc’s.

He shook his thoughts back into order as he neared his unit’s assigned place of encampment.  He had duties to fulfill, charges to carry out, though he had no heart for them.  He just wanted it to be over, so no more young men would have to make decisions between life and its joy, no longer have to force other men into that choice or eternity itself by bullet or bayonet.  Yet, even now, General Meade and the corps leaders were holding council, deciding what action to take the next day.  And he was quite certain it wouldn’t be to quit and go home.  Could he find the strength to go on?  For the sake of his men, he’d have to, but he wasn’t sure how.

 

Chapter 12

The Final Assault

No one got much sleep that night.  If the sultry heat hadn’t kept them awake, the constant movement behind the lines would have.  At dawn an exchange of gunfire was heard, far to the right of Adam’s position, which was now just south of center along Cemetery Ridge.  Hoping to let his weary men sleep a little longer, he got up quietly, but only fifteen minutes later, orders came to fall in and form a line of battle beneath the crest of hill.  As they had so many times before, the soldiers threw up fresh breastworks with what vigor they had left.  No one knew, after all, where along that long line the Confederates might make their attack.  At least, it seemed that they’d be fighting from a defensive position, instead of attacking as they had yesterday, and Adam concurred with the leaders’ decision to let Lee make the first move.  The incline here was gentle, compared with the one they had assaulted the previous day, but here they had the high ground.  It was a strong position, one he thought they could hold.

As General Hancock passed their position on his morning rounds, Colonel Brooke, still limping from his ankle injury, drew his attention to the little remnant of the 27^th Connecticut.  “Despite being so few and so near the time of their mustering out, they fought valiantly yesterday,” he praised.  Hancock stopped and regarded them with approval.  “Stand well to your duty now,” he said, “and in a few days you will carry with you to your homes, all the honors of this, the greatest battle ever fought upon this continent.”  He rode on toward other troops, but each man in the small regiment stood a little taller, a little more determined to meet the call of that historic hour.

As the soldiers waited for the expected attack, the temperature rose.  By nine, Adam reckoned it to be at least 90 degrees, its impact increased by the humidity.  Some of his men had trouble staying awake after their sleepless night, and he was forced to rouse them time and again, with firm reminders to stay vigilant.  He saw General Meade ride up for a conference with General Hancock, and though he was too far to hear the words, the opinion that Lee would not attack the center, where two divisions of the II Corps were posted, drifted down the line.  That hope, uncertain though it might be, only made vigilance harder, but Adam continued to preach it to every man he caught nodding off.

About eleven o’clock the far-off sounds of battle ceased, and an eerie silence hung over Cemetery Ridge.  To the soldiers all along it, the quiet seemed oppressive, foreboding, and their hushed-voice discussions only added to the sense that something dreadful and deadly was out there, headed straight for them.  Like waiting for a long, slow fuse to burn its way down to a stick of dynamite, Adam thought.  The sun had reached its zenith.  There was no shelter from it, and they sweated in their standard-issue wool uniforms.  Though water was running out, too, Adam hesitated to send anyone behind the lines to fetch more.  The order to attack might come at any moment, and with only thirty-eight men left, the 27^th Connecticut had no one to spare.

One hour passed and then another.  Finally, around 1:00, the slow-burning fuse struck powder, and the world erupted in thunder and fire, as every Confederate cannon discharged in a wave of explosions as relentless as the waters of the ocean sweeping over a rugged coastline.  The soldiers on Cemetery Ridge dove for cover as more than 100 shells exploded over their heads, carrying thousands of bits of blazing shrapnel that descended in a fiery hailstorm.  Thankfully, most of the missiles overshot them, though not by much, and landed in the rear.  Everything they hit produced new projectiles of wood, rock and metal, and some flew back toward the ridge and the men flattened on the ground.  Adam gasped as something sharp struck between his shoulder blades and smaller pieces peppered his neck.  He instinctively placed both hands over that vulnerable part and just as instinctively pulled one back when he felt the sticky substance beneath.  His hand came away slightly bloodied with a piece of gravel stuck to the middle finger of his right hand, and with a outrush of air, he released the breath he’d been holding.  Just rock, then.  Nothing serious, he thought with relief.

So much smoke shrouded the ground that he could scarcely see the men up the line to the north.  Then, an inhuman shriek of pain and terror exploded in his ears, and he turned to see a wagon, careening wildly southward behind him.  Of the pair of horses pulling it, one had been blown to bits by a direct hit, while the other tried desperately to escape on the three legs it still had.  Adam’s frontier training took hold in that moment, and almost without forethought, he turned his rifle on the suffering creature and sent a single bullet through its brain.  As it fell, he lay back panting, wondering capriciously if he’d be charged with dereliction of duty for wasting ammunition by killing one of their own.  Horses are soldiers, too, aren’t they? he asked himself, his thoughts careening as crazily as that wagon.

Then something else caught his eye, something he knew he’d remember for the rest of his life, be it long or short.  Out of the shrouding smoke rode a majestic figure, his immaculate white shirt contrasting with the coal black of his prancing horse.  Hancock, his staff trailing behind, was slowly riding along the perilous crest of Cemetery Ridge, looking as serene as a man on a Sunday stroll.  Though shells exploded all around him, he never flinched as he portrayed an example of calm to all the men of his corps.   Adam scrambled to his feet and saluted.

“General, please,” a member of his staff implored.  “Don’t hazard yourself needlessly.”

Hancock looked steadfastly at his young aide for a moment.  “There are times when a commander’s life does not matter,” he said and continued his ride along the ridge to the shouts of men all along the way.  Were there times, too, when a lieutenant’s life didn’t matter? Adam wondered as he continued to stand, his eyes following the commander whose example he was determined to emulate.

The awe-inspiring moment had passed, but the bombardment went on and on until deafening thunder from the cannons became the normal expectation.  Smoke grew heavier and heavier until the only part of the soldiers’ bodies visible was their feet.  Then, finally, the noise ceased and the smoke lifted, but not the tension.  The same eerie sense of a burning fuse prevailed again.  Then, down the line from some officer on the right with a better view of the signal station on Little Round Top came the cry: “Here come the Rebels!”

Every man’s attention riveted on the eastern slope of Cemetery Hill with a single burning question: where would the Rebs strike?  From the woods a mile across the valley, more than 10,000 men in gray, in ranks two and three deep, marched forward.  Their line stretched a mile and a half, elbow to elbow.  Onward they came, red flags waving proudly, as they headed directly for the Union line, straight at Hancock’s troops.  “Be ready,” Adam urged his men as he walked behind their crouched figures.  The men responded with lifted heads and rifles at the shoulder.

Adam’s brow wrinkled at the haunting silence with which the opposing line moved relentlessly toward them.  Where were the cannons that normally accompanied a charge?  Had they not saved any back?  And what of their own artillery?  The enemy was close enough now to invite fire, wasn’t it?  What he couldn’t know then, but learned later was that both sides, for their own reasons, had to wait.  The Confederates couldn’t fire until their own men were clear, and the Union gunners, who had only cannister left, had to wait until the enemy was in point-blank range.

When those two points of readiness collided, all hell broke loose.  The Union’s cannisters went first.  Tin cans, packed with sawdust and lead balls, exploded and sent deadly missiles in all directions.  It reminded Adam of birdshot blasting from the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun, though more fierce and powerful.  He and his men might not be the birds targeted, but the widespread range of the slugs put them at risk, as well as the enemy.   The artillery fire was quickly answered by Confederate musket and cannon, and a cloud of dust and smoke rose over the ridge.  From the cloud descended a gruesome rain of blanket rolls, knapsacks, shattered guns and, worse: severed arms, legs and heads.  Adam wondered how long the sight would haunt him.  Quite possibly, forever, he thought.

The right and left flanks of the Rebel army were crushed, but the center ranks kept coming.  All along Cemetery Ridge soldiers in blue shook their fists and yelled, “Fredericksburg!  Fredericksburg!”  From some lips it was a gleeful taunt, in retaliation for the anguish of their fruitless attack against that stone wall back at Marye’s Hill.  Adam found himself yelling the same words, but with different intent.  He felt almost as if he were shouting a warning.  “Turn back!” he might have cried if his words could be heard above the din of battle.  “You’ll die here as we did there!”  Yet even as the thought passed through his brain, he knew the rebels could no more turn back than they could have in the earlier battle.  Orders must be obeyed, even at the cost of so many lives.  Only the commanders could order a retreat and they weren’t doing it.

Still the Rebels came, and for a few fearful moments they broke through.  Hancock was shot from his horse, and Gibbon, his second in command, was also wounded, the bullet entering his left shoulder and fracturing the shoulder blade as it exited.  Without specific orders, the troops on the left of the line, Adam’s men included, ran to help those who had borne the brunt of the attack.  He wasn’t leading them, though.  There was no organization; each man just ran where he thought he was needed and fired when he sighted a target.  Wasn’t there something in the book of Judges, Adam recalled, about men doing what was right in their own eyes?  That hadn’t worked out too well.  Was there any reason to suppose it would here?

He had no sooner brushed aside that distracting thought than he felt a blaze of pain slice into his left hip, and his leg went out from under him.  As he plummeted to the ground, he saw a man in gray looming over him and simultaneously raised his own weapon and fired.  The enemy soldier toppled across him, and he quickly shoved the inert body off.  Then, lying flat on his back, he frantically reloaded, almost certain he’d be shot again before he could finish.  Instead, the Rebels started running back down the slope.  Some were so exhausted they simply threw down their muskets and surrendered.  A few of the Union soldiers chased after the fleeing Confederates, and Adam yelled, “Get back!” as if the men were of his own company.  Had they obeyed?  Had they even heard?  He had no idea, for the whole landscape started to swirl around him.  Forage caps flew in the air and victorious shouts echoed around him, but all he could do was lie back, spent, and hope someone came to help him up.  Rising on his elbows, he blinked until the slope below him came into focus and he could see the field of slaughter, literally acres of dead and dying stretched between two mountain ranges only a mile apart.

As he fell back to the ground, he saw a figure in blue bending over him.  “Lieutenant?” the man said and then, “Adam.”  Who would call him by his familiar name?  Marc might, but it couldn’t be Marc; he was back in the hospital tent.  The face above him finally came into focus and he whispered, “Jim.”

“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Brand said as he pulled his shirt out of his pants and tore a strip from it.  Wadding it up, he pressed it against the Adam’s wound and clumsily tied it on with a second strip of shirt.  “Maybe that’ll help until I can get you to the surgeons, sir.”

Adam waved a negating hand.  “No.  Must see to my men, Jim.”

“They don’t need you now, Adam,” Jim said softly.  “The fighting’s over, and that wound needs tending, but I—I don’t see any stretchers, sir.”

“I’ll walk,” Adam insisted, his mind still aswirl with the idea that an officer must remain upright as an example to his men.

Seeing no other solution, Jim acquiesced without argument.  He helped Adam stand and slung his left arm over his shoulder.  “Lean on me as heavily as you need, sir.”

Adam tried to walk normally, but soon realized what a fantasy that was.  The further they went, the more he leaned into the strong shoulder of his friend.  The walk seemed endless as they made their way down the backside of Cemetery Ridge, across the road that came from Baltimore and onto the banks of a rock-strewn creek, where the field hospital for the II Corps was being set up.  “Set up” was a loose description of what was happening behind the lines, since there were no tents or beds, just row after row of wounded men, lying on the bare ground above the creek.  “Above” was another loose description, as Adam would eventually learn.

“Hate to leave you here like this, sir,” Jim said after laying Adam gently down several rows back from the creek, “but I need to return to my unit.”

Adam clasped his hand.  “Thanks, Jim.  I won’t forget.”

“My honor, sir,” Jim said and saluted.

Adam lay there for what seemed like hours until his mind began to conjecture nightmare scenarios.  Worst of all, he began to chide himself for the encouragement he’d given Marc.  How easily he’d told his friend that he could adjust to life without his strong arm, his gifted, clever right hand!   He hoped, even believed, his own wound wasn’t that serious, but he’d seen too many soldiers succumb to gangrene to totally convince himself.  What if he were to lose his leg, at the hip, no less?  What use would he be to the Ponderosa if he couldn’t ride or even stand on his own?  He propped himself up on his elbows, hoping to see a medic nearby, but all he could see was row after row of men in need of one.  Beyond them, he could see the waters of Rock Creek and might have enjoyed its babbling if he could have heard it above the groans of the wounded.  Something about that creek bothered him, though, and slowly he realized that it was running full now, and they were all lying on the low bank of the water.  God help them if it rained!

Tired from the slight effort, he fell back, closed his eyes and waited . . . and waited . . . and waited some more.  He tried to sleep, but the groans of men all around him made that impossible . . . or so he thought.  He must have drifted off into light slumber, at least, for he was surprised to feel someone’s hands probing his wounded hip, and upon opening his eyes, he saw the green chevron embroidered with a gold caduceus that designated a medical steward.  “Will I lose it?” he managed to quaver out.

The steward laughed roughly.  “You’re nowhere near that bad off, lieutenant!  I can’t do much for you, now, but you’re one of the lucky ones, you are.  Someone will be back to dress that wound when we’ve cared for those not so lucky.”

Adam nodded his understanding.  “Thank you.  Will there be tents by nightfall, you think?”

The steward shook his head in disgust.  “Not likely.  We had a few to start with, but our new general ordered the medical wagons halted between Union Mills and Westminster.  The tents—and most of our other supplies—are back there, not here, where they’re needed.”  Then, apparently, he realized that as gratifying as it was to grouse about command mistakes, he shouldn’t be burdening a wounded officer with such news.  He stood and said, “Just rest and take heart, lieutenant; you’ll live to fight another day.”  Then he took his leave.

Adam’s attempt at a wry grin looked more like a grimace, but there was no longer anyone there to see it.  He’d live to fight another day.  Well, he doubted that he’d fight, given the shortness of his remaining enlistment term, but he’d live.  No help for a while and no shelter for the night, but he’d live.  Did a man need more encouragement than that?  He’d slept in the open before, both back home and on the field of battle.  It could be worse.  At least, it was summer, not winter like when he’d slept on the battlefield at Fredericksburg.  The best news of all: he’d keep his leg.  He could ride and rope and wrangle cattle, once he got home, and in the meantime, he could pursue his education and his architectural career.  His mind drifted then to his friend who’d had undoubtedly lost his limb by now.  He understood Marc’s fear better now, and he’d work all the harder to make his easily-made prediction a true one.  As the sun set behind him, casting a warm glow that failed to warm the wounded men groaning by the creek, Adam’s eyes closed and he slept at last.

He didn’t sleep long, for in the early evening heavy rain descended on him and the other wounded lying in the open.  At first, he welcomed it, as the antidote to his raging thirst, but once that was satiated, he was ready for the rain to quit.  Thankfully, it did before long, but it turned his earthen bed to mud.  Well, I said it could be worse, didn’t I? Adam thought with a snort as he wrapped his arms around himself for warmth.  At least, it scoured the sky clear of the smoke that had hovered over the battlefield and let the stars shine brightly through.  It would have been a pleasant evening but for his pain and hunger and the anguished moans of hundreds around him and the threat of thunderclouds building on the horizon.  It could be worse?  Yes, and probably would be, with the sort of luck he was having.  Adam drifted to sleep again and dreamed of tents floating down to shelter them all, hoping against all reasonable hope, that it wouldn’t be a case of “if wishes were horses.”

July 4^th dawned, the anniversary of the nation’s liberty, but there would be no celebration today, despite the victory of the Union Army.  Adam woke to a light rain in his face.  Obviously, wishes are not horses, he snorted.  Not a tent in sight.  As if to taunt him, the rain grew heavier throughout the day, one thunderstorm after another marching through like soldiers in as relentless a line of battle as the Rebels coming up the slope of Cemetery Hill.  Would the name become prophetic for the thousands wounded in battle?  It already had for some, of course, and there’d be more.  That was the nature of war.  But he’d live; he’d leave this place of death . . . with a new appreciation of the gift of life.

But the worst was yet to come.  Adam only thought he was miserable until strong winds joined the driving rain.  All we need now, he moaned to himself, is for this rain to turn to sleet.  In July? he scolded himself.  You are growing morbid, Adam Cartwright.  Unlikely as that was, he couldn’t quite convince himself that he wasn’t about to be pelleted by bullets of ice, but that was the least of his worries.

He’d known that the opposite bank of Rock Creek was higher than the one on which he and the thousands of other wounded lay, but he hadn’t fully considered how geography would combine with the heavy rain to worsen their situation until his ears picked up the commotion and cries of despair that mounted later that morning.  He’d shut his eyes to keep out the rain, but now, with a hand raised to his brow to shelter them from the pelting drops, he peered out and saw men being dragged to higher ground behind him.  Propping himself up on his elbows, he realized that the creek was rising, its water starting to overflow the lower bank.  “Time to abandon ship,” he muttered and instantly wished he actually had one.

Painfully, he sat up and then, in apprehensive hope, lurched to his feet.  It hurt as much as he’d feared it would, but at least he could stand.  After a couple of seconds to steady himself, he risked a few steps and decided he didn’t need anyone’s help to get out of this predicament.  He could save himself.  Could he save others?  Determined to try, he limped toward the creek.  The medical attendants were all too busy to notice one fool headed the wrong direction.  He found a soldier, nearly unconscious, and grasping him under the arms, he pulled him, inch by inch, away from the rising water.  It took forever, or so it seemed.  No one came to assist him; there wasn’t anyone who could.  There weren’t enough able-bodied attendants to save all the wounded, and except in extreme cases, no more than one could be spared for each needy soldier.

Adam paused, winded by the slight effort.  There were more men in danger, however, so after panting a few minutes, he headed down the slope again.  Downhill movement, he soon learned, was treacherous to a man not steady on his feet, and with a piercing cry he fell to the ground.  The cry caught the ear of a medical assistant, who paused long enough to order sharply, “Stay where you are, lieutenant!  You’re safe now; the water won’t rise this high.”  Then he was off, down the hill, oblivious to Adam’s real intent.

Much as he wanted to disobey that order, Adam knew he couldn’t.  To try would probably ensure his becoming one more casualty for the medics to rescue, and there were already more than they possibly could.  He watched in horror as the water rose, only to about two feet deep, but it was more than enough to drown men too weak to raise their heads.  All he could do was watch, tears trickling down his stubbled cheeks.  Saving that one man had taken all the strength he had.  He lay back in despair, grieving that he done so little, never realizing how many times that man would tell his children and grandchildren how some unknown officer, wounded himself, had rescued him from the oncoming flood.

All Adam was aware of, that sodden morning on the slope, was the curses of those who had been saved, begging to be put out of their misery.  He didn’t know whether to blame the pain of untreated wounds or the guilt of surviving when others had died.  He felt both himself, but his mind also conjured images of Pa and his precious little brothers, and focusing on that gave him the courage to fight on, even when his strength was gone.

With nothing else to do, he again drifted to sleep, but was awakened abruptly about noon by the sound of cannon fire.  He and every man surrounding him felt instant alarm, for they were now lying in what yesterday had been the main target of the enemy’s artillery.  The alarm was a false one, however, and the medical staff nearby were quick to reassure them that the cannons were their own and were being fired, not in battle, but in salute to the nation’s birthday.  Adam felt a moment of gratification that the nation continued, despite the continuing disunity of its states, but it was hard to celebrate when the stench of the dead remaining on the battlefield wafted up the hill to mingle with the reek of putrefying wounds closer by.

During an interlude between rain squalls, Jim Brand dropped by to check on him.  In answer to his inquiry, Adam said, “I’m doing all right, Jim—far better than some.  It’s miserable without any shelter from this rain, of course, and I don’t know when the surgeons will get to me, but I’ll make it.  Don’t worry about me; just tell me how the men are faring.”

“Better than you,” Jim replied with a small grin.  “Tired, of course, after the exertion of the last couple of days, but we’re not doing much today.  Some have been walking the battlefield to recover weapons left behind, both ours and the Rebels.  They’ve been quiet today.  I think the fight’s washed out of them.”

“Rain washes everything out,” Adam muttered.

Jim nodded.  “Even the blood on the grass.”

Adam raised up on his elbows.  “Have you had a chance to check on Marc?  If not, I wish you would.  They were going to take his arm, you know.”

Jim’s lips pressed tightly together.  “They did that,” he finally said, adding after a disturbing pause, “He didn’t make it, Adam.”

“No.  Oh, God, no.”  Adam’s voice, so strong when speaking of his own discomforts, came out in a whimper.  Not that good, gentle boy.  He didn’t deserve . . . his thoughts swirled until he felt Jim’s strong hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Jim said.  “You were close, weren’t you?”

Adam swallowed the bile rising in his throat.  “Came to be . . . through this.  He was closer to Jamie before.”

“Soldiering together builds bonds,” Jim said with the authority of one who knew.  “Sharing anything does, but when it’s life or death you’re sharing”—he never had a chance to finish the thought, for at that moment medical help finally arrived.

“Sorry you’ve had to wait so long, lieutenant,” the attendant said, “but more urgent cases come first.”

“Of course,” Adam said.

His flat voice had more to do with the news he’d just received than any bitterness over his long wait for assistance, but the other soldier bristled nonetheless.  “Well, we do our best!” he said.  “Now, if you can ease yourself onto this stretcher, we’ll get you carried to the hospital tent.”

“I can walk,” Adam insisted, struggling to rise.

“Let us carry you, sir,” Jim said.  “Faster and easier for everyone.”

Adam blinked at him.  “Oh.  All right, Jim.”

“Might I be of any assistance, sir?” Jim asked the medical attendant.

“You can help carry the stretcher if you like,” the man answered.

“Gladly,” Jim answered.

“Yes, well, I’ll lead the way.”  The man started down the slope to the east, leaving his fellow attendant to grab the other end of the stretcher.

“Sorry, sergeant,” the soldier said.  It’s—uh—been a long couple of days.”

“For us, too,” Jim said without a hint of reproach.  “Glad I can help.”

As they carried him, Adam closed his eyes against a sudden wave of dizziness whose source he didn’t bother questioning.  His mind was aswirl with too much else.  He tried not to think about Marc, but his friend’s face kept swimming across his eyelids.  Had he given him bad advice?  Would he have been safer if the surgeons hadn’t taken the arm?  Some men, he’d heard, couldn’t bear the shock, and maybe, considering the shortage, they hadn’t given him enough chloroform to curb the pain.  Not the best contemplations for a man about to undergo surgery himself, however trifling it might be by comparison.  He winced as he was moved onto the operating table and felt strange hands probing his tender hip.

“Sorry, lieutenant,” a new voice said, and Adam opened his eyes to see an officer in the uniform of a surgeon above him.  “We haven’t any chloroform left, but this should be a swift and simple procedure.”

“Could Jim stay?” Adam asked.

Seeing the surgeon’s quizzical look, James Brand said, “He means me.”

“Oh.  Well, I suppose,” the surgeon replied.  “If you could hold him down, sergeant.”

Instead, Adam reached for Jim’s hand.  “This is enough,” he whispered.  “Just get whatever’s in there out, doctor.”

It wasn’t the right title for a military surgeon, but the major let it slide.  Taking his scalpel, he made a precise incision at the entrance sight and probed deeper for the metal which he’d partially seen before.  Within minutes the operation was over.  “I think that’s got it,” he said, holding the piece of shrapnel before Adam’s face.

Adam almost laughed.  Was that all it was . . . that little thing?  “Just the one piece?” he asked in amazement.

“That’s all.  Why, did it feel like a whole cannonball had hit you?”  The surgeon grinned as he asked.

“Almost,” Adam said.

“Well, it did graze the bone, lieutenant, which accounts for the pain.  Didn’t splinter it, however, so you’ll soon be on your feet.”  The major sighed.  “I’m afraid we still have no tents, so you’ll be in the open again, but hopefully, you’ll rest somewhat more comfortably.”

“Yes, thank you, sir.”  Adam’s wavering attempt at a salute was acknowledged by the surgeon with a nod as he gave instructions to the orderly. With Jim’s help, the man carried Adam back up the hillside and laid him down on his spongy bed.  Drained by the slight exertion, blood loss and the lack of rations, he fell asleep almost immediately.

Adam woke with the first rays of sunlight birthing in the east.  He’d wakened a time or two during the night, but the hip was hurting far less than before.  He managed to pull himself up to a sitting position, though he quickly leaned his weight on the good hip.  For the first time since being wounded, he felt his thinking was reasonably clear, so he decided to assess his situation.  He was still in pain, but nothing could be done for him here without medicines or even a scrap of food.  Why stay, then?  Technically, leaving the “hospital” was probably against regulations, but would anyone even notice?  He decided to give himself a little more time to rest before making any decision.

Mid-morning brought a spark of hope with the arrival of a delegate from the U.S. Christian Commission, bringing food for the wounded.  Waves of excitement rippled up the slope until the men lying there realized the delegate had brought only two boxes of hardtack to feed men who had not eaten in three days.  Still, the volunteer organization was doing better than the Army, whose supply wagons were still held up somewhere in Pennsylvania, but nowhere near Gettysburg.

Adam’s share of the bounty was only two squares of the stone-hard crackers, but he was grateful to get them.  It was that final disappointment, however, that sealed his decision.  He’d barely swallowed down the meal before he pulled gingerly to his feet and tested his strength with a few steps.  It hurt—a lot.  Forcing his right leg to bear most of his weight, he limped away from the field hospital.  He figured he wouldn’t be any worse off, and he might as well be with his own men.  At least, they could be trusted to bring him a canteen of water when needed.

It turned out to be a good decision.  His men welcomed him with cheers and all the attentive care he could have desired.  Most of them he’d known only a short time, but as Jim had said, soldiering together had built a bond that could never be understood by men outside the ranks.  They found him a comfortable place to lie down and even rigged a makeshift shelter over him to keep out the intermittent rain.  Feeling safe at last, he slept again.

He was awakened by a hand shaking his shoulder.  “Sorry, sir,” a young enlisted man whose name he could not recall said, “but we’ve had orders to prepare to march out.  I—uh—wondered if you’d like help getting back to the hospital, sir.”

“Never!” Adam declared adamantly, pulling himself up.  “I’m going with you.”

“Are you sure, sir?” the man asked hesitantly.  “I mean, we’re chasing Bobby Lee, sir, no telling how far.”

“I appreciate your concern, soldier,” Adam said, “but I’m not staying here.  I’ve seen quite enough of the tender mercies of the field hospital.  They’ll send some doctors with us, I’m sure.”

As the man reached to help him to his feet, Adam stood, hoping, praying he wouldn’t fall over.  He tested the leg and, though it hurt, he thought he could walk.  After all, Brooke was leading them after taking a bullet to the ankle.  He probably had a horse available, however.  Adam would have to walk, of course, and how far he could was another question.  Well, if he couldn’t keep up, surely some civilian along their path would feel inspired enough by the recent victory to take him in.  Whatever lay ahead, he wasn’t staying here!

It was about 4:00 when the II Corps, lead now by General Hays since Hancock was temporarily out of commission, marched south, hopefully on the trail of Robert E. Lee.  They followed the Taneytown Road, which had brought them to Gettysburg, and fortunately for Adam’s limping progress, the pace was slow.  Even the unwounded soldiers were exhausted from their recent days of hard marching and fighting, and their progress was slowed still more by the on-and-off rain squalls that continued throughout the afternoon.  As they passed through Frederick City, the men were heartened by the throngs of cheering, flag-waving crowds that lined the streets.

They started across the Blue Ridge by way of Crampton’s Gap where they encountered a torrent of rushing water several feet deep, the gift of the heavy rains.  Seeing no choice but to wade through it, Adam steeled himself, wondering if his leg would withstand the force of the water.  A couple of his men, foreseeing his difficulty, unobtrusively walked on either side of him, lending a steadying hand when needed.  With their help, Adam managed the two-mile stretch of road covered by the roaring water.

After a brief rest, the men pushed on to Two Taverns, where they bivouacked for the night.  Adam gratefully sank down to the ground, exhausted from the 8-mile trek.  His two saviors from Crampton Gap saw to it he had all he needed by way of water and hardtack.  One of them, however, noticed what appeared to be blood on the left leg of his uniform and took it upon himself to summon the regimental doctor.

Irritated at first, Adam submitted to the examination and the inevitable scolding of the medic.  “Eight miles in the rain,” the doctor chided.  “You’re lucky only a couple of stitches broke loose.  I hear we’re remaining in camp tomorrow, and you, my foolish young lieutenant, will spend it flat of your back.”

“As you order, sir,” Adam said, adding with determination, “but when we move out, I’m going with my unit.”  He didn’t feel required to explain his reasons, but he felt a strong determination to finish what he’d started.  His term of service with the Army was almost over, and he wanted to hold true to the end, so that in after years, he would feel no reproach that he hadn’t done all he could for his country and the cause of freedom.  If they could catch up to the Confederates and stop them from crossing back into Virginia, they might actually end the war.  That would be worth every painful step.

*****

As ordered, Adam spent the entire day of July 6^th resting beneath a shady tree, well attended by the men of his company.  Anything he needed was brought to him by these faithful comrades, along with a scolding from his college friend, James Brand.

“I know; I’m a fool,” Adam said in response.

Jim smiled slightly.  “I wouldn’t go that far.  Perhaps a bit over-conscientious, but far from a fool.”

Adam chuckled.  “Thanks for that.  How are the men holding up?”

“Let’s just say we can all use the rest,” Jim said.

“Go get yourself some, then.  I’ll be all right.”

After Jim left, Adam lay back, watching a mother robin feed her neck-stretching brood.  All seemed so peaceful here that it was hard to believe the enemy was close, but he knew they were.  Just yesterday, while trudging through the torrent around Crampton Gap, he’d heard cannon fire in the distance, and they’d even formed a defensive line when they reached the old battlefield of Antietam.  It came to nothing, though.  The Confederate Army was near enough to taste, but not to touch.  Would they catch up with them tomorrow?  Perhaps, and that sliver of hope made Adam determined to follow orders and rest as thoroughly as he could today just in case tomorrow was the day that ended this unrelenting war.

He thought of the relationships he had formed and those that had strengthened during these difficult months in the Army . . . bonds that could be formed so quickly in no other way than facing hardship and danger together.  Most wouldn’t last past their mustering out, but the memories would.  He’d recall them all with fondness, from inspiring leaders like Brooke and Hancock to the lowest ranked private who had slaked his thirst with a swallow from his own depleted canteen.  Whatever tomorrow brought, he’d be among men whom he could trust to be there for him as he would for them.

The men of the 27^th Connecticut were up early the following morning.  Adam felt well rested, and as he tested his leg on a short walk to relieve himself, he thought he could manage the march.  He hadn’t gone more than a mile, however, before his hip began to ache.  By sheer determination, he stayed on his feet, putting one foot in front of the other again and again.  He found his thoughts drifting back to his boyhood on the trail west, and he chanted to himself the same encouragement he’d used then when he’d felt too tired to go on: take a step; take another; walk, walk, walk.  I did it then; I can do it now, he repeatedly told himself, and it seemed to put more steel in his spine.

He was grateful, nonetheless, for every brief rest along the road and, especially, for the halt that was called at noon.  They’d covered eight miles, small progress for men on the chase, but Adam knew each step had aggravated his wound.  The regimental surgeon confirmed that when he stopped by to check on Adam.  “The stitches are holding,” he said, “despite your best efforts to reopen them.”

“I’m taking it easy,” Adam assured him.

The doctor snorted.  “Of course, you are, and of course, you’re insisting on continuing.”

“Yes, sir,” Adam said firmly.

“I could order otherwise, have you confined for refusal to obey orders, you know.”

“You won’t do that,” Adam said.  He had taken the man’s measure and knew respect, however grudging, when he heard it.

“No.”  The doctor shrugged.  “You’re too near the end of your service for me to put a blot on an honorable record, but heed my words, lieutenant: stay off your feet; rest as much as possible before we head out again.”

“I will, sir . . . and thank you for understanding.”

They marched out at 6 a.m. the next morning.  The clouds above poured out a deluge and turned the road into a bog.  That day was Adam’s most tiring, but when they stopped at 5 p.m., he’d managed 20 miles, almost unassisted.  They halted for the night on the banks of the Monocacy River, and Adam was asleep almost as soon as he lay down.  The next day was almost a repeat of the previous one—another twenty miles gained.  Still no sight of the enemy they were pursuing, but he consoled himself with the thought that by the time they finally did catch up with Bobby Lee, he’d be strong enough to stand and fight.

The next several days were much like the preceding ones.  Thankfully, the marches were shorter, but still hard on exhausted men, even those not nursing a nagging hip wound.  Though grateful for his leg’s sake, Adam wondered why Meade wasn’t pushing harder, why he’d led them toward the Potomac by a route twice as long as the one Lee was apparently using.  Mere lieutenants, especially those with less than two weeks’ enlistment remaining, didn’t ask such questions of the commanding officer, but even the lowliest private could wonder.  Their only hope was that they could prevent the Confederate Army from crossing the Potomac, and for that, their greatest asset was the continuing rain, which was surely raising the river’s level to near-unfordable heights.  The afternoon of the 13^th, the rain began to fall in sheets, and the Union men’s spirits rose with the river they couldn’t yet see.

Robert E. Lee had also taken note of the weather’s effect on the river he had to cross to reach home territory again and he had taken action.  He’d ordered his quartermaster to tear down nearby warehouses for wood to build makeshift boats, which would then form the base for a pontoon bridge.  As his weary troops began to cross the shaky bridge that night, the continuing downpour, accompanied by fog and mist, shielded their departure from the enemy following not far behind.

At 5 a.m. on the morning of the 14^th, Colonel Brooke received orders to move his brigade to the front and feel out the enemy.  The Rebels seemed close enough to smell, and the hope of their imminent capture energized the troops as they marched out.  It plummeted again when on reaching Falling Waters on the Potomac, they saw nothing but the rear guard of Lee’s Army.  The main body had already crossed safely into Virginia.  The Union troops arrived in time to capture the final 1000 soldiers in gray, but the bird that they had trailed, oh so slowly, for nine days had flown what they thought was an inescapable coop.  For the men of the 27^th Connecticut, it would be their final action in the war, more fizzle than fight.

They moved down the river to Harper’s Ferry and made camp in Pleasant Valley, about two miles further.  The next morning they made another short jaunt to Sandy Hook, the final march for Adam’s regiment.  The official notice came the next day.  They were going home, given early release from the Army of the Potomac because they had only a few days left to serve.   From here, they would take the railcars to muster out in New Haven.

As he climbed aboard the train the morning of July 18^th, Adam felt torn by opposing emotions.  The mood of those around him was jubilant, as they had every right to be.  They had done their duty and done it well.  They had earned this trip home, and most were excited just to be alive to make it.  Adam felt all that, too, as well as thoughts of the future, the near-at-hand one of returning to Yale and the further-off dream of being again on the Ponderosa with Pa and his little brothers.

He was troubled, however, by the destination that lay more immediately ahead of him, for news he’d heard before boarding that train made him feel the war hadn’t really been left behind.  Ahead of him, a ravished city bore witness that violence had spread to the home front.  Only days before, the people of New York City had rioted against the imposition of a new draft.  Both public businesses and private homes burned, stores looted, military sites and transportation facilities targeted . . . and worse.  The Negro community, blamed as the reason for the ongoing war, was singled out for torture, mutilation and killing, from a crippled old coachman to the youngest child.  The four-story Colored Orphans’ Asylum was attacked and burned.  The white superintendent and matron led the children there to safety at a local police station, but elsewhere a black infant was thrown from a window and a seven-year-old boy beaten to death for no crime but the color of his skin.

Shocking to hear such reports, even about strangers, but there were people in the city Adam knew personally, too.  Addison Bracebridge, whose architectural firm had employed him that idyllic summer of 1862, was a staunch Republican, and the homes of that party’s adherents had been specifically targeted.  His business, too, might have been burned, although unlike the New York Tribune, it hadn’t been listed as a casualty.  And what of the woman with whom he had boarded and her three overly amorous daughters and the dear elderly Randolphs, who were also her tenants, and—Adam shook his head.  Harm might have met anyone in the city, but with the exception of Mr. Bracebridge, none he knew were likely targets.  He hoped he’d be able to check with his employer as he passed through, but he was still in the Army and subject to its rules.  Come to think of it, maybe his service wasn’t yet over, but only transferred to a horrifyingly different field.

He wasn’t getting anywhere soon, however.  He and the others in his regiment left the train at Baltimore and remained there for two days before being joined by the parolees from Annapolis and Camp Convalescent.  A jubilant Michael Bufford engulfed him in a bear hug before remembering their difference in rank.  Adam arched an eyebrow, but didn’t rebuke the exuberant private.  In a few days rank wouldn’t matter, so why let it matter now?  Bufford got the message, anyway, and shot his lieutenant a snappy salute before chattering away his excitement at heading home again.  Adam shared a more respectful, but equally earnest, handshake with his other old tentmate, Saul Breckinridge, his wound now healed.  Dan Worthington was back, too, looking fit again, and with his comrade in misery at Libby, Adam exchanged an embrace fully as warm as the one he’d received from Bufford.

They left by rail that same day, making a welcome stop at the Volunteer Refreshment Saloon in Philadelphia.  Adam again took advantage of the free stationery and postage to write to his father.  He kept it brief, just saying that he would muster out soon and was unsure of his immediate plans for the summer.  He didn’t mention the riots to ensure that the letter was safe to read to his little brothers, but he assumed that Pa would have heard by the time the letter reached him.

As they left to board the train again the next morning, Adam cast a warm glance back at the establishment that had in every way lived up to its name.  He’d been a much different young man when he was here before.  Oh, he wasn’t quite an innocent then, for he’d seen violence back home, especially in that brief war with the Paiutes.  He’d seen far worse in the last nine months, however, than the West had ever shown him.  And what was there to show for all the slaughter?  Emancipation had been achieved, at least on paper, but the draft riots in New York made him wonder what it would take to make it a reality for living, breathing men, even here in the “free” North.  He wasn’t sorry he’d signed up to serve; he just didn’t want it to be for nothing.  Whether it was or not, only time would tell, he decided and settled back in his seat to enjoy the scenery speeding past his window on the way to their next destination, New York City.

Arriving there, they bivouacked at The Battery this time, instead of the park.  Almost immediately, Adam requested a pass to visit friends in the city.  “No, lieutenant,” he was told in sharp and firm tones, “you do not have permission to leave camp.  No one leaves here tonight.”

“Surely, the danger is past now, sir,” Adam pressed, “and there are people I’m concerned about.”

“Considering the current climate, lieutenant, I do not consider the city streets to be a safe place for any man in uniform to walk alone.  The answer is no, and if you persist . . .”

“I won’t persist, sir,” Adam said, the battle between head and heart quickly won.  One day away from departing the Army was no time to buck authority!

“A wise decision,” the officer said gruffly and after a quick exchange of salutes, Adam returned to his regiment.

“It’s for the best, Adam,” Dan said when his friend returned to complain about the arbitrary ruling.  “There wouldn’t be anything you could do to help your friends before morning, anyway.  Just write them from New Haven.  I’m confident you’ll receive reassurance that they’re unharmed.  It is a big city, after all, and unless they lived directly in the path of destruction, it’s unlikely it reached them.”

“I suppose,” Adam said, though he knew that he wouldn’t rest entirely easy until he’d posted that inquiry and received favorable answers from each of those he cared about here in New York City.

The next morning the soldiers boarded the train which would take them to their final destination.  The familiar sights through the windows conjured up memories of previous trips for Adam.  The pleasing view of Long Island Sound, the beaches gently lapped by rippling waves, the quiet summer resort towns he passed through on the 75-mile trip all spoke to him of a return to peace, to a land untouched by war.  Each turn of the wheels seemed to rumble, “Home, home, home.”  But New Haven wasn’t home, much as he loved the City of Elms.  Home was a continent away, beneath the shadows of an entirely different species of tree; home sat beside a sapphire lake, not an ocean-washed bay.  Home was a world . . .  and perhaps a lifetime . . . away.

For now, New Haven would do.  There wouldn’t be anyone there to meet him, of course.  With the final term over, Jamie would have already gone to his father in Massachusetts, but it would still feel like a homecoming, just to walk those elm-arched streets once more.  And walk them, he would, too!  Never mind the nagging hip pain.

The train pulled into the station at New Haven, where beyond expectation, a grand welcome awaited them.  The soldiers formed in ranks and, accompanied by military companies of the city and the municipal authorities, they marched to the north portico of the State House.  All along the route, bells were ringing, flags flying and cannons booming to announce their arrival as they moved past throngs of cheering people from the town and nearby counties.

As they passed the college, students were lined up just beyond the fence, yelling their welcome home.  Even Professor Thacher, old as he was, stood atop the fence, shouting, “Three cheers for Brand!”  Adam joined in as heartily as the students echoing their professor’s sentiment.  It didn’t matter to him that he himself received no mention.  Jim had thoroughly earned any accolades given him.  He had borne the colors of the regiment, making him one of the most visible targets on the field.  He had risked his life to save that of the regimental commander, Adam had learned much after the fact.  And, more personally, he had been a staunch and true friend to Adam, counseling him through difficult times and sharing with him the disappointments and losses of the last nine months.  No, he couldn’t possibly begrudge Jim anything.

At the courthouse they formed in columns to hear the Mayor’s formal welcome home.  Since he had no one else to welcome him, it felt good to Adam . . . as long as it didn’t wax to politician length.  The Reverend Dr. Baker’s address, which followed, was blissfully brief and closed with a prayer of thanksgiving.  Though Adam wasn’t a strong praying man like Jim Brand or his long-term friend, Jamie, it felt right to render thanks to the Almighty for his safe return.  So many hadn’t made it.

To close the program, Mrs. William Doty read an original poem.  Adam knew from the first stanza that it would require a soldier’s stamina to endure the well-intentioned, but scarcely classic verses:

 

“We’ll fling to the breeze our banner bright,

America’s emblem of freedom and right.

And rallying round the standard true,

Shout a joyous welcome, brave patriots, to you.”

 

The invitation to a collation that followed, however, was welcome, indeed.  Soldiers could always eat, especially when the menu didn’t include hardtack, and with fond recollections of former collations at Yale, Adam gladly moved toward the hall where they would be served.  He didn’t get far before hearing someone shout his name.  Looking around in wonder, he finally spotted the hand waving frantically at him and separated it from the dozens of other greetings shouted to soldiers all around him.  “Jamie!” he cried and began pushing his way through the throng.  Then he spotted Jamie’s father standing next to him and stopped abruptly.  Mr. Edwards, too?  He’d come all the way from Massachusetts just to welcome him back?

Adam had just blinked the moisture from his eyes when another voice called his name, this one in the light, silvery tones he had once cherished.  The girl reached him first.  “Oh, Adam,” she cooed.  “How good to see you home again!”

Adam gently removed her entwining arms from his neck.  “Thank you, Miss . . . uh, Allen, isn’t it?” he said, forcefully keeping his voice level.

Elizabeth gave a little gasp, but decided to pass it off as a joke.  “Now, Adam, I’m sure you can’t have forgotten me in nine short months,” she tittered.

“Of course not,” he said without a hint of either mirth or affection, “but if you’ll excuse me, my friends are waiting.”  Heavily emphasizing the word “friends,” he turned toward the Edwards so quickly that he didn’t even see her astounded countenance.

“Jamie!” he cried exultantly as he enfolded his true friend in the bear hug his one-time heartthrob would no doubt have welcomed.  “I didn’t expect to see you here.  I thought you’d have gone back to Springfield by now.”  Then he turned to give Jamie’s father a hearty handshake.

“I stayed over after my exams,” Jamie said, “since I knew you’d be coming soon.  I’ve kept track of the date, you know.”

“And kept me well aware of it, too,” Mr. Edwards said with a laugh.  “I wouldn’t have dreamed of missing your homecoming, son.

Jamie sobered suddenly.  “I checked the casualty lists after every battle, so I knew you’d made it and I—I know about Marc.”

“I’m so sorry,” Adam said, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “I know what a good friend he was.”

“We meant to treat you to lunch,” Mr. Edwards said, hoping to dissipate the young men’s sorrow, “but I guess you’ll be attending that collation.”

“Probably my duty,” Adam admitted.  “I’d prefer to dine with you, of course.”

“There’s always supper.”  Seeing the other soldiers beginning to move off the green, Mr. Edwards added, “You’d better go, Adam.  We’ll meet you here in about an hour, and if you’re still hungry, we’ll fill up the empty spots.”

“You’ve already done that, sir,” Adam said warmly.

Josiah Edwards smiled.  “Thank you, son.  There’ll be a room at the hotel for you, too, if they allow that before your final mustering out, and then it’s home to Springfield for all of us.”

Home . . . how many times he’d thought of it lately.  No word could have been sweeter, and though Springfield wasn’t the Ponderosa any more than New Haven, for a short while he would gladly call it home.  For how long, he couldn’t say at that moment.  Was there still a job for him in New York City?  Had that business even survived the riots?  And what of his friends there?  He needed to get those letters written, but that could wait.  He’d have time while the official papers for his release from the Army were being completed.  And in the meantime, there were food and friends and . . . yes . . . home to fill him full to overflowing.

~~~~Notes~~~~

Terror reigned in New York City from July 11-16, 1863, in actions more brutal that it has been possible to detail here.   Laboring men, unable to pay $300 to hire a substitute, as the law allowed, rioted against the unfairness of “a rich man’s war and a poor man’s fight.”  Black men, not being legal citizens, were not subject to the draft and were considered the major cause of the war and, therefore, became special targets for the mobs, along with Republicans, the party in power during the war.

James Brand received a gold medal for his heroic service at Gettysburg, but it is unclear exactly what medal that was or which officer he risked his life to save.

The End

© February, 2025