Early one misty October morning Alex was awakened by the bugler. He lifted his head to listen and his eyes met Dowd’s. His tentmate said, “That’s a call to assemble. I wonder if we’re being attacked?”
Alex rolled out. “I doubt it, but we’d better move.”
Standing in parade formation, Alex counted regiments. As far as he could see, blue-uniformed men covered the banks of the Potomac.
General McClellan and his staff passed down the ranks and turned to address the troops. “Tomorrow,” he proclaimed, “October 26, 1862, we shall began our march against the enemy. Due to the size of our army and in consideration of the seriousness of the task that lies before us, it will be to our favor to refrain from moving with undue haste. Today I shall dispatch scouts to reconnoiter and report back. All regiments shall be in a state of readiness to begin our march tomorrow.”
Alex’s friend Wade came into the tent after breakfast. “Well, old buddy, I’ve a feeling our divisions won’t be this close together again for a long time.”
“I’ll miss our talks,” Alex said, getting to his feet and holding out his hand.
“I’m hoping this whole affair will be resolved early into the new year. Alex, I’d like to have your address. When this is over, let’s try to get together. I’d like to meet your wife and see that little fellow. I know my wife will feel the same way.”
“Sounds fine to me,” Alex said, ducking into his tent to hunt for paper. “I’ll write it out for you. It’ll be interesting to see you again and talk over our experiences. God grant this will soon be settled,” he added.
Late the following day, while Pennsylvania troops waited by the Potomac for their turn to cross, word rippled through the ranks. Standing beside Alex, Wade said, “We’re sure not sneaking up on them. They say Lee’s positioned Longstreet between us and Richmond. We’ll have to fight every inch of the way. Have a feeling Lee’ll be escorting us back here by next week. We might as well leave the fires burning and the soup on.”
“Ah, sour apples!” retorted his buddy. “We sent them running after Antietam. The Union is doing its stuff now.”
“It’s to be move, halt, move, halt,” Wade told Alex. “No wonder President Lincoln is getting impatient. We have lots in common, Lincoln and me. I’m impatient, too. How much longer is this going to last?”
****
“Well, sounds like things are moving again,” Amos said when he walked into the farmhouse. “General McClellan has been relieved of his command and General Burnside is in as commander of the Army of the Potomac.”
“Potomac,” Olivia repeated. “That means Alex will be moving.” Slowly she added, “I suppose all I can do is wish him godspeed and continue to pray for him.” She sighed and pressed her hand to her side.
****
Dense fog blanketed the battlefield. Alex stepped out of his tent and tried to peer through the swirling haze. He moved his shoulders uneasily, more alarmed by the distortion of sound than the blanket of moisture surrounding them. Distant oars seemed to splash within camp.
It was mid-morning before the eerie gloom began to lift. Slowly the landscape reappeared, and the phantom oars and thready voices disappeared.
Even before the fog was gone, the commanders issued orders. The word was passed down the line, “We’re doing battle today.”
Shivering in the cold dampness, they were given instructions. Meade’s men were to march toward Stonewall Jackson’s position. Alex was with General Franklin, and their contingent was ordered to cross the open plains.
Just as the sun pierced the fog, Alex saw they were below Lee’s position. They heard the command, “Company halt!”
“Ain’t we going up there?”
“Can’t go nowhere until ordered. That’s Meade up there.”
“Well,” drawled the soldier beside Alex, “at least we’ve got a good view of the battle. See, the fog’s finally lifting.”
Alex turned to watch Meade’s men dash toward the hill where Lee’s men were positioned. The lifting fog revealed two columns of blue marching rapidly toward the stone wall at the base of the hill. Alex found himself gripping his gun until his hands ached. “Our men are moving out!” he muttered.
Sweat dripped onto Alex’s musket as he watched men crash through ravines and leap across marshy ground before plunging toward the stone wall running the length of the hill. “Dear Lord, that’s impossible! They’ll never survive,” he exclaimed, watching the fragile line of blue.
As the men reached the stone wall, Alex saw the gray mass rise beyond them. He groaned helplessly as the rifles began to fire with the steady precision of drums, pounding out a staccato barrage with deadly results. The blue uniforms hesitated, then crumpled away from the wall.
The hours of the afternoon ticked by slowly as Alex watched mass after mass of blue uniforms assault the wall and fall at its feet. “Oh God,” Alex groaned.
“We’ll all be in there, unless Burnside calls a halt to this suicide,” muttered Henson. “Look at that, our men keep coming out of that ravine, and the Confederates are mowing them down as fast as they appear!”
“And there’s no way our fire will reach that far,” Alex muttered sadly. “From that position, we could send all our men in there with the same results.”
“You’re right; it’s foolhardy to continue this massacre,” snapped the man standing beside him.
Alex turned, saw the man’s insignia, and examined his face. He recognized General Hooker from the next regiment. A young lieutenant came forward, “General, here’s your reply from General Burnside.”
Hooker took the paper and glanced at it, then frowned. “I’m going in for a conference. He’s too far away to see what’s going on.”
It was nearly nightfall when the fresh assault began. Alex spotted Hooker and his men one moment before they shouted their battle charge and rushed toward the hill.
In disbelief Alex exclaimed, “They’re going in! Burnside’s sending them.” He watched the charge up the mountain.
The Confederate guns were silent, and for a moment it looked as if the men would gain the wall, but then the rifles blazed point-blank. One after another the men dropped.
As Alex watched his comrades storm the hill and fall back, one of the men in his regiment clapped him on the shoulder. “Rumor is, we’re next,” he whispered savagely. “Don’t look like Burnside’s giving up.”
“We’ll all be dead by morning,” Alex muttered despairingly. “Dear Lord, stop this madness!”
****
The next morning a cold December wind swept in from the north. Life moved with a blur of blood and torn bodies. Those who had carried muskets the day before now carried shovels. Moving among the silent ones, shivering under the howling wind and the sight of death, soldiers quickly searched their comrades’ pockets for identification before lifting the frozen bodies into the shallow graves.
One private fingered the scrap of paper he had found in a bloodied pocket. He stared into the mangled face of the dark-haired man. “Good thing he left some identification, or no one would recognize him. He’s from Pennsylvania—Martinsville. Name’s Alexander Duncan.”