INTO THE FIRE
Shepherdstown, Virginia
April 13, 1861
The tower bells in the Episcopal Church rang continuously, denying Wes any hope of sleep. He rose with a groan, his chest and head aching from the beating he had received two nights ago. He steadied himself against the bedpost until the room stopped spinning, then staggered the few steps to the window, his curiosity about the bells greater even than his physical suffering. The streets were crowded for the early hour, with people hurrying to and fro. Teenage boys ran about shouting incomprehensible things to their friends, while men grouped in clusters to discuss something of obvious importance.
What were the bells doing ringing on Saturday morning, Wes wondered. Something momentous had occurred but, even though he opened the window to listen, he could not make out what was being said. He had decided to get dressed and investigate when the door burst open and Ben rushed in.
“Wes! You’re back!” There was a tone of wild excitement in Ben’s voice that was unusual for him. He started to say something else, but stopped short when he caught sight of Wes’ bruised face. “What the hell happened to you?” His whole manner changed to concern.
Wes sat heavily on the bed, wincing in pain. “Nothing.” He waved the question off with his hand. “What’s all the noise about?”
Excitement returned to Ben’s face. “It’s war! South Carolina fired on a federal fort in the harbor at Charleston yesterday!” Wes stared at Ben in shock while he tried to digest the announcement. Standing in front of him, gesturing wildly, Ben was almost shouting. “Virginia has to secede now. I don’t see how we can wait any longer. The rest of the southern states are supporting the attack. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”
Wes was too dizzy and sore to share his friend’s enthusiasm, and gingerly rubbed his aching head. This time Ben would not be put off. “What happened to you? Who the hell did this? How come you’re back so soon? And where’s Ginnie?”
But Wes was overwhelmed by a swirling confusion of thoughts. He rubbed his forehead trying to sort everything out. The war had begun, and he was here when it started. That meant that he would be part of whatever happened over the next days. If he had not left Gettysburg when he did, he would most likely have been trapped in the North. He almost smiled at the thought of Skelly doing him that favor, but his jaw hurt too much. He had chosen to be here with his friends. His brother and the rest of them had chosen to run back north. And Ginnie, too, had made her choice. There was no turning back now.
“Wes!” Ben’s voice broke through his fog. “Where’s Ginnie?”
“She’s not coming,” he answered quietly.
Ben appeared taken aback. “Why not? If she doesn’t come now, she won’t be able to.” The insistence in Ben’s voice grated on Wes’ nerves.
“She’s not coming!” he bellowed with a furious glare. “She made up her mind to stay with her mother.” He paused, then said in a softer, almost puzzled tone, “She thinks I’m a traitor, Ben. So does the rest of the town.” He pointed at his bruised face. “This is what they did to me because they think I’m a traitor.” He pulled up his shirt to reveal the even uglier red welts and purple bruises that covered his chest and back.
“My God,” Ben whispered, stunned out of his exuberant mood.
“They stole her away from me, Ben.” Suddenly, he was afraid he might cry. “They poisoned her mind with lies about me. They think I’m a traitor because I’m in the Guards. Now that the war’s started and I’m down here, they’ll be sure of it.” The words were forced out through his clenched teeth, firing a rage which he hoped would avert his tears. He looked at Ben and saw the pain and compassion in his friend’s wide eyes. “I didn’t believe you, Ben, when you said there’d be a war. Well, I was wrong. I’ve seen what they think of southerners. There’s going to be a hell of a fight, all right, and I want to be right here in the front ranks.”
Ben nodded, his eyes locked on Wes’. “I’ll be right here with you, my friend.”
Wes dressed as quickly as his injured ribs would allow, then headed over to Bridger’s with Ben. The tavern was crowded with members of the Guard and the place rang with the jubilant excitement of a spontaneous holiday. Wes’ entry caused something of a stir as men rushed forward to examine his bruised face.
Ben proudly explained that Wes’ wounds were the result of his defending the southern cause back in the North. He became an instant celebrity, even among some who had previously avoided him, suspicious of his northern upbringing. Now his injuries were marks of honor, branding him as one of them. Ben added details in retelling the story which inflamed the group even further, saying that the attack was specifically directed against the Hamtramck Guards.
As Wes listened with quiet pleasure to Ben talking about him, he let his mind try to grasp the tumult that had overtaken the nation, puzzling as to where he fit into it. So much had changed in recent days. Everything he had worked for and dreamed about in the past four years had been ripped away from him. But instead of causing him to feel desolate, that fact brought him a revelation: he saw clearly where his future lay. It was not in a feeble attempt to gain power and prestige through money and land; it lay instead in the coming battle. For five years he had marched and trained with the Guards for just such a moment. It had never seriously occurred to him that his membership in the group had any meaning other than friendship. But, without realizing it, he had been preparing himself for his personal destiny, that of a soldier.
New reports arrived hourly during the next day. Rumors overran the town and a thousand willing voices were ready to pass them along. Each bit of information was discussed, debated and argued about until the wind blew in another rumor for them to chew on. There were reports that President Lincoln was amassing an army in Washington, getting ready to attack Richmond and burn it to the ground. Even more ominous reports told of bands of escaped slaves from the Carolinas which were heading north toward freedom, liberating blacks along the way and indiscriminately slaughtering whites, including women and children.
The Guards continued to cluster near their headquarters, waiting for some official word about how they were to respond to the crisis. Runners from the telegraph office arrived at regular intervals with the latest news from Fort Sumter, the previously unknown Federal installation on a tiny island in the North Carolina harbor. The eyes of the nation were focused on Charleston and the besieged fort, with those south of the Mason-Dixon Line seeing the assault as the first blow in their struggle for freedom.
On April 13th, Fort Sumter fell to the forces of South Carolina, and was abandoned by the Federal troops that had vainly attempted to hold it. When the news reached Shepherdstown, the place erupted into jubilant celebration. Any who still opposed the war decided to keep off the streets and away from the joyful crowds. Wes and the Guards led the celebration, marching through the streets in hysterical self-congratulation until late into the night.
On the next day, sobering news came that President Lincoln, in response to the attack, was calling for seventy-five thousand volunteers to put down the rebellion. He had asked loyal governors to immediately send as many men as they could muster. Virginia, not yet having seceded from the Union, was included in this request. Many in the Guard were enraged by the President’s action, and by the fear that Virginia’s Governor Letcher might bow to the President’s wishes. Wes heard whisperings among the Guard members about riding further south to join the armies in seceding states that were massing to combat Lincoln’s Federals.
By Wednesday, the 17th, Wes, tired of the unresolved tension, was ready to join those going south to join the Confederate Army. He, Ben and several of the others were sprawled on the grass near Bridger’s, discussing that option when a stranger walked up to them and stood looking down at Ben. After squinting up at the stranger for a second, Ben’s face lit up with pleasure. He jumped to his feet and the two men exchanged a noisy bear hug.
“Wes, meet one of my oldest friends. This here is Henry Kyd Douglas.” Douglas shook Wes’ hand, while Wes sized up the newcomer. He looked to be in his early twenties and was dressed in a gray uniform similar to that of the Guards. He was tall and bore himself with an easy grace, his intelligent blue eyes partially hidden by a mop of light brown hair.
Ben slapped Douglas on the back. “Where’d you come from?”
“St. Louis, of all places. I was there when they started shooting at Fort Sumter. So I boarded the first train that would get me back here.”
Ben turned to Wes. “Kyd here is one of the original Guards. Can’t you tell from the look of this tattered old uniform he’s got on?”
Kyd looked offended. “My mother was up all night mending this thing so I wouldn’t miss the fight.”
“Fight?” Ben snorted. “What fight? We’ve been lying around for days waiting for a fight. We’re about ready to leave and go further south to get some action. What do you say?”
Kyd frowned for a moment, his eyes focused on the distance. “That might be premature,” he muttered. Ben and Wes turned to see a horseman galloping down the street at full speed. The rider dismounted, not waiting for the horse to come to a halt. He landed gracefully a few feet from the Guard’s commander, Captain Butler, who stood at the door to the saloon. The entire Guard quieted expectantly.
The messenger saluted. “Captain Butler, I bring a message from Governor Letcher. You are to proceed with all haste to Harper’s Ferry and gain control of the armory there. Other militia groups are headed there now, and together you are to compel the Yankees to leave.”
Wes was close enough to hear all of this clearly and, with a surge of excitement, he and the others looked at each other and cheered. The captain straightened himself, pulled his hat firmly onto his head, cleared his throat and bellowed, “Form up!”
It was just as they had practiced it hundreds of times, but this time they jumped to it with a tingling sense of anticipation. The lines straightened and the men stood stiffly, awaiting orders while the captain mounted his horse and rode to the front of the line.
“Boys,” he said, “the governor is calling upon us to fight for our rights. We have grown up free and independent citizens of a free country. Now, the politicians in Washington have decided that they know more than the founding fathers did. Well, let’s find out how they change their tune when they see the Guards coming. Now, follow me!”
With one voice, the Guards cheered, holding their caps high in the air. Wes was carried away by the moment, waving his cap with abandon and yelling until his throat hurt. The captain turned his horse and moved slowly down the road as the sergeant screamed orders, barely audible over the cheers. The front ranks lurched ahead and the rest followed, the files becoming ragged as the later ranks hurried to catch up.
Wes saw that Kyd had an old pistol tucked in his belt and Ben was wielding what looked like the handle of an old axe. Looking around, he noticed that most of the others had brought assorted weapons with them, everything from hunting rifles to rusty sabers. Feeling conspicuously naked with his hands empty, Wes broke ranks and dashed to the side of the road to grab a good-sized branch. He fell back into line and, as he walked, started to convert his prize into a weapon by trimming it with his knife and smoothing it to fit his hands. Along the road, people gathered to witness the impromptu parade, waving kerchiefs and hats and shouting good wishes.
Kyd, talking to one of the telegraph operators in town, had learned that Governor Letcher had finally responded to Lincoln’s call for troops with a cable that said simply, “You have chosen to inaugurate civil war.” Having broken its ties with the Union, the Virginia legislature began debating whether to join its sister states in the new Confederacy. But the governor’s order for the state’s militias to attack and capture Harper’s Ferry seemed to make that decision inevitable.
Wes had been to Harper’s Ferry two or three times over the years and knew a little bit about the place. It had been the scene of an infamous uprising a few years earlier during which John Brown and a group of radical abolitionists had tried to seize the armory and raise an army of former slaves. The plot had failed and Brown and his followers had been hanged. Wes, aware of the irony of the moment, wondered whether things would be different this time; he and other bands of rebels were now on their way to capture that same armory.
As if reading his mind, Kyd, marching beside him, spoke up. “I was there when they dragged John Brown out of the engine house. It feels strange to be going back there. I never thought it would come to this.”
“I know what you mean,” Wes said thoughtfully.
Kyd squinted at Wes. “Ben says you’re from Pennsylvania.” It wasn’t an accusation, but it wasn’t a question either. Wes stared back at Kyd, trying to decide what he meant by the statement.
Kyd understood Wes’ reaction. “I only ask because I’ve spent a lot of time in the North myself.” Then, looking up the road ahead of them he said quietly, “I don’t believe any man should be the slave of any other man.” He glanced at Wes, who was clearly surprised by this statement. “And yet I can’t stand by and watch the government push Virginia around. Is that why you’re here?”
Wes thought about all the reasons that had brought him back, but realized that the answer was too complicated to put into a few words. Looking at Kyd, he nodded his head. “Yeah, I suppose that’s why I’m here, too.” Kyd smiled approvingly and Wes felt as if he had just passed another test. He wondered how many more tests awaited him.
They completed the ten mile trip before dark, every foot of which was torture for Wes, still bleeding from his beating at the hands of Jack and the others. Atop the hills overlooking the little village of Harper’s Ferry, they met another militia group from Charlestown. The two companies eyed each other suspiciously as their captains talked the situation over. After a few minutes, the group from Charlestown led the way down the hill, with the Guards following close behind. By the time they reached the outskirts of town, darkness had fallen.
Wes was quiet, like most in the group, nervously listening to the sounds from up ahead. Off to their left, the Potomac flowed noisily away into the darkness. Approaching the outskirts of the town, they noticed a glow in the sky and were assaulted by an acrid smell. Word spread through the ranks: “Fire!” The Yankees were burning the armory. They had seen the militia coming and were trying to destroy the place to keep the munitions out of rebel hands. The men surged forward. Wes, Ben and Kyd lost sight of each other as the formation broke and men ran in confusion toward the fire. When they reached the center of town, they discovered at least three buildings ablaze.
The first men on the scene were yelling for buckets and trying to organize the troops into a fire line. In the distance, riding up the hill to the southeast, Wes could see a few dark shapes with torches galloping away from the fire. Some of the Guards on horseback took off in pursuit. Buckets appeared and the men formed lines from the river up to the burning buildings. Wes found himself on the front end of one bucket brigade, throwing water directly on the flames. Shouts rang though the night as men ran chaotically in every direction, silhouetted by the leaping flames. The heat was like a wall and the fire licked out at him as he ran forward, repeatedly hurling buckets-full into the thirsty flames. His arms grew heavy, his face stung viciously from the heat, and his bruised body protested every effort, but he ignored the pain.
The work continued for an hour, until Wes, faint with exhaustion, was scarcely able to lift another bucket. The heat was becoming almost unbearable and, despite their best efforts, new fingers of flame kept leaping out of the building, reaching for him. Eventually the fire began to subside, and as the heat lessened, men came forward to pull away the charred wood and smash the burning embers with the flat of their shovels.
When the fire was under control, a relative quiet returned to the town. The shouting subsided and darkness returned as the last flickering flames died away. Men patted each other on the back, exhausted but pleased with their efforts. Wes and some others found a stable nearby and lay down on the soft straw to rest. He was instantly asleep.
When he awoke, the sun had just risen and around him men moved slowly. Some wandered out to examine the fire’s damage. Wes stood and stretched his aching muscles. He had marched ten miles and then fought the fire long into the night, still suffering from the effects of his beating.
He walked over to the building which he had tried to save. It had apparently been a storage facility for military equipment. A large hole had burned through the roof leaving fragments of wood hanging down at odd angles against which the low morning sun cast eerie shadows. The wreckage still smoked and crackled, giving off an overpowering stench. At the far end of the ruin were what was left of several horse stalls. Wes assumed that army mounts had been stabled there.
A voice from behind startled him. “They pulled out, all of them.”
He turned to see Captain Butler examining the damage, talking to an officer from one of the last militia groups to arrive. “Most of them were gone before we got here. The rest set the fires when we got close. But we did good. Most of these buildings can be saved.”
“How about the weapons? Did they burn the arsenal?”
“Some were destroyed. But we saved about half the rifles. Thousands of them.”
The other officer nodded and the two moved off down the street. Wes explored the rubble for awhile, then, when he saw some of the others rising, set off in search of breakfast. He begged a loaf of bread from one of the shops, whose baker was happy to trade it for details about the action of the previous night.
Wes made his way up a steep hill. At the summit he found a church which looked down on the spot where the Potomac and the Shenandoah Rivers meet to embrace the town. The sign indicated that it was a Protestant Episcopal Church. Wandering hesitantly inside, he found the sanctuary empty and sat in the back pew, resting for a moment and listening to the quiet.
He was not a praying man, but he had been raised in a religious home. His parents had taken him to church every Sunday and, although he had the feeling that they did it for the sake of appearances, deep in his heart he knew that it all had a serious meaning. He peered through the gloom of the dimly lit church. A single light hanging in the chancel caught his eye, and for a moment the world around him lost its focus.
He found his thoughts wandering back to Ginnie and the memory of her running away from him. He could feel again the heavy weight which pressed on him, keeping him from pursuing her. If only he had tried harder to convince her, she might have come with him. But then the old doubts crept back into his thinking, the certainty that she had never loved him, that he had been a fool all along. Instead of loving him, she despised him, thought he was a traitor.
Traitor. That word made little sense to him anymore. Each day made him more certain that he was a true patriot. The northerners were the real enemies of freedom; they were ignorant of the significance of what Washington was doing, and too indifferent to take action to stop it. Everything that mattered to him, everything that he cared about, was now in the South.
He wondered if his mother was watching over him. In this place, he could almost imagine her there beside him. Knowing that she would be able to answer his questions and soothe his inner turmoil, he closed his eyes tightly and pictured her face.
“Can I help you, son?”
Wes turned quickly to see a priest standing beside him.
“No, sir. I just stopped in for a moment.” He stood abruptly, anxious to leave.
“It’s all right. You’re always welcome here. No matter what side you’re fighting for.” The priest gave him a wry smile. “God doesn’t take sides, you know. We’re all his children.” He moved off toward the chancel humming to himself and Wes slipped out the door back into the sunlight.
About noon, the sergeants gathered the Guards together. The group chattered excitedly, pleased with their success in foiling the army’s attempt to destroy the town. Wes found Ben and Kyd, sat down alongside them and listened to their stories about last night. They had helped fight the fire at the arsenal itself, and related in comic detail how the fire was just about to reach the gunpowder when they had finally doused it. They all felt as triumphant as if they had already won the war.
Captain Butler gathered the men around him. “I have a message from the governor congratulating you on your success in driving off the Federals last evening. He is calling for troops to join in the fight against the North. The day before yesterday, our legislators voted on a resolution to sever Virginia’s ties with the United States. The resolution was passed.” The Guards cheered wildly.
The captain continued, “We are no longer a part of the United States, but a free and independent state. As the militia, we are called upon to defend our state against the attacks of all outside forces. Therefore, we will be calling you forward singly to fill out the proper papers. From that moment on, you will no longer be Guards. You will be members of the Virginia Volunteers.” There were more cheers. “And,” he concluded, “you will be paid eleven dollars a month for your services.”
The men cheered even more enthusiastically at this announcement, then lined up to sign their names in the regimental book. When it came Wes’ turn, the sergeant handed him a pen which he dipped solemnly in the ink. Carefully, he spelled out his name and date of birth, then hesitated when he saw the line marked “Birthplace.” After a moment’s reflection, he scrawled “Gettysburg” as illegibly as he could, purposely omitting the state name. He looked at the sergeant to see if he would object, but the man, bored and tired, was oblivious.
Wes looked again at his name, tucked under many others, in drying black ink. With a sudden thrill, he realized that now he was really a soldier. There would be no more play-acting at war, as the Guards had been doing for years. This was for real, and he was going to be a part of it. Here was the opportunity to prove himself, at long last, a success.