NINE
Henry
"Blast! Crawford’s men just crossed over Griffen. They’ve gone too far. What in the blaze is happening?” General Warren began shouting towards various officers, attempting to restore order to each misguided division. “Officer Farrow! Tell Ayers to get his men back into line, now!”
Guided by the map that Sheridan had supplied, they all anticipated meeting the Confederate army head-on at Gravelly Run Methodist Episcopal Church. To their surprise, there were only a handful of rebels awaiting them. Where was the main battle front?
A few shots fired from the west indicated the direction, but half the men had wandered east when they discovered they’d been given an inaccurate position.
General Ayers had spurred away on horseback, attempting to reroute his furthest flank, and out of earshot. Henry had no choice but to assume momentary command.
“Fall in! Fall in,” Henry yelled to those around him as the shots flew. “Wilson, go west!”
It was futile. The ridged lines had crumpled and a dangerous gap had grown in their flanks. If Warren didn’t get all of the divisions back together, there would be room for the Confederates to push through.
“Samson, let’s go,” Henry urged the horse forward to close the gap.
Shots peppered those in front. A man fell into Samson’s path, and he reared up. Henry was almost thrown but recovered his balance. Samson’s front hooves touched back down, and Henry wasted no time.
“With me,” he roared to the men around him. His voice dropped several octaves, booming out.
Men that he’d fought with for months, clamored towards him, attempting to fall into a loose line.
Some shouted, screaming out as stray bullets tore through their flesh.
While they were stuck at the open crossroad, they were at a disadvantage.
Rebels sheltered in the protection of the trees ahead, only popping out to send another volley towards the Yanks.
Everyone held their breath, waiting to see if the next bullet would be destined for them.
Ayers bounded back with the right flank just in time.
The reinforcements shouldered behind them, finally restoring their full-strength division.
Bullets cut through the sky, the Confederate force targeting General Ayers as he positioned himself at the center of the front line.
They struck men around him, tearing them down.
One bullet hit the ground just inches from the general.
“Fire at will and give them hell!” Ayers commanded.
The lead rain flew.
Maggie emerged from the thick pines to an unspeakable scene.
In broad daylight, there was no mistaking the mass casualties that lay before her.
Taking her back to her youth, the uncanny resemblance to her mother’s ill-fated attempt to turn her into a woman of worth.
A field of death, she’d said after ruining the embroidered linen.
And she had been right. Except this time, the splotches of blood on the fabric were not a minor prick of her finger.
They were bodies, dead and mutilated. Blood of life spilled out and coated the ground.
Miles both east and west, men attacked each other.
The sound of gunfire, cannon blasts, and violence was deafening.
Dirt, flesh, and cloth exploded as the cannon balls made impact on the field.
Tens of thousands of men fought to the death.
The magnitude was worse than anything she’d seen or imagined.
She sat hunched, covering her ears, and shaking in terror. She wasn’t brave enough to face this.
If Henry was in the fray, he was lost to her.
So focused on what lay before her, she was unaware of her immediate surroundings until the man was too close for her to run.
Maggie had been spotted, and he spurred full speed towards her. She recognized him—it was one of McDewitt’s men. If discovered, she would likely end up dead.
She barely had time to push herself from the ground when he rode up on her.
“Coward,” he cursed, screaming profanities. “Get back to your unit or I’ll string you up for desertion!” Upholstering his pistol, he pointed it at her head.
Maggie held her hands up and ducked her head down. “Please, don’t shoot,” she begged. Remembering her fa?ade, she cleared her throat in an effort to make her voice a deeper octave. “I got separated. Ran back to the road to try and find them.”
He didn’t lower his gun. “Whose command?”
“W-Warren. V Corps,” she ground out.
“They’re bringing up the rear on the east side. Go. If I see you again outside of the battlefield, I won’t hesitate to fire.”
She sprinted away from him, running faster than she ever had.
Her lungs burned as she dragged in each breath. The smoke drifting through the air irritated her lungs further. But she didn’t slow until she was one hundred yards from the back line. She wheezed for breath and scanned the battle, desperate to see where Henry could be.
Oh God, oh God, where are you?
Injured men lay where they had fallen, crying out. The dead were silent, the blood under them a ghastly dark shade of red.
“Help me,” a man close to her moaned.
Maggie rushed over to his side, kneeling down in the mud and blood. The shot had pierced his upper thigh, shattering the bone. Part of it pierced his trousers, sticking out. A mangled mess and completely beyond repair.
The soldier grabbed her hand. “I don’t want to die.”
Doing the only thing she could think that Abigail would do, she unclasped his belt, using it to tie off just above his injury. It would at least slow the blood loss. When she twisted the makeshift tourniquet tighter, he screamed.
“I’m sorry, I know it hurts, but I had to. Someone will come and take you to the surgeon soon. Can you hear me?”
He grimly nodded once. His eyes were tightly closed against the pain. He’d bitten his lip through, blood dripping from his mouth.
“I’m looking for an officer with Warren’s V-Corps—Officer Farrow. Do you know where they are?” She felt guilty asking, but she had no choice.
He didn’t open his eyes, but he unclenched his teeth enough to answer. “Last I saw, he’s leading a line forward, up White Oak Road. He’s with Ayers—the curly wig and long beard riding the Mexican paint horse.”
She exhaled, “Thank you.” Squeezing his hand one final time, she left him and resumed her sprint, ignoring the other cries for help. Once she found Henry, she would help in any way she could, she promised herself.
Keeping her eyes fixed ahead as she ran, she searched for a paint horse. But the sides of battle had crushed together in hand-to-hand combat, and it was difficult to see beyond the mass.
She leapt over the bodies on the ground with the agility she wouldn’t have in her skirts.
A flag whipped in the breeze in front of her, obscuring her view of a bolting horse.
Mere inches from her by the time she noticed, Maggie fell backwards, narrowly avoiding being crushed.
Her bottom hit the ground hard, but her head automatically swiveled following the animal fleeing from the battle.
The solid muscles clearly defined beneath its chestnut-and-white pattern as it galloped away.
The saddle was empty, the rider having been left somewhere on the field, but in her gut, she knew it had to be Ayers’ horse. He was dismounted, likely in the fray before her.
“Henry!” She screamed out of desperation.
It had the opposite effect. One nearby Confederate glanced over at her and began making his way towards her, the removed bayonet in his hand.
Run, a voice inside her commanded.
She scrambled to her feet. With McDewitt’s man at the top of the hill, and one coming directly towards her, the only place she could go was into the battle. Tucking her head down, she shoved her way through, not looking back to see if she was still pursued.
After a minute, she began to try and find her way out again. But she was knocked left and right in the fight. Something hit her hard in the side, and she fell flat. Before she was trampled, a hand shot out and pulled her up. She couldn’t see who helped her. The chaos didn’t cease.
Orders that she couldn’t make out were shouted and men pressed and pushed on both sides of her as the sides crushed together.
There wasn’t room to wiggle out or to inch forward.
She was well and truly in the throes of war.
Elbows, limbs, and metal battered her body.
Her breath came in short spurts from the mass of bodies thrashing about.
Claustrophobia mixed with the true potential of suffocation overwhelmed her.
Her arms were folded up near her chest, trying to push away from those surrounding her. It wasn’t working. She placed one hand protectively over her chest and felt the sturdy metal beneath her blouse. The reminder of strength vast surpassing her own, a truth she could not deny.
She tuned out the noise and heard her mother’s voice. ‘I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me.’
Giving up the last pretense of denial, she turned her face to the heavens and prayed, “Your power cannot be overcome. I know this and I know that I need You. Without You, I am lost. I won’t make it without your help. Please, God, help me. Save me.”
In an instant, as if they were parted by unseen hands, the line in front of her split, men continuing the fight on either side, but leaving a gap about a foot or two wide in between. It was large enough for her to fit through.
Maggie bolted through. The miraculous act of mercy wasn’t lost on her. She was nearly at the end of the parted line when she saw where her steps had been directed.
Fifty yards ahead sat a familiar figure atop a chestnut horse. His sword fought off the several opponents surrounding him on the ground, the blade clashing against metal bayonets. A skilled fighter to keep three men away from him.