THE CONQUERING HERO
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
July 1-2, 1863
The weeks since Wes’ meeting with Skelly had passed in a blur. The army continued its march northward, moving without opposition through quiet towns where eyes peeped from behind windows to watch the invaders pass. Moving past Gettysburg many miles to the west and north, they had eventually turned south, drawn ever closer to Wes’ birthplace by some mysterious plan from on high. It seemed that God and the generals had all conspired to return him to Ginnie.
The heat of summer had set in, drying the roads along which they marched. Dust trailed high into the air, covering men and animals with a buff-colored film, working its way into noses, throats and eyes. But this march, a repetition of a hundred weary movements in past years, did not feel nearly as tiring to Wes. All around him, men talked of the strangeness of this enemy place, of how lush it was, untouched by the ravages of war. They were amazed by the amount of food stored in the barns they passed. Wes, however, looked out upon the familiarity of everything he saw, and it calmed his soul.
A few weeks back, his life had seemed empty and hopeless; now, everything he had once prayed for seemed to be happening. There was little chance that the North would be able to stop them now. With General Lee leading them, they had won all of the significant battles. Their confidence was high, food and water were plentiful, and they effectively controlled much of south-central Pennsylvania. Who knew how much farther they might go? Newspapers were calling for a cessation of hostilities, and many thought the war would soon end with a negotiated settlement. That would mean the rebels had won. They didn’t want to conquer northern territory; they just wanted to be left alone in their new southern country.
But most of all, in Wes’ breast pocket was a secret that outweighed all the victories of war. Jack’s letter was certain to bring Ginnie back to him.
As the march dragged on, there was word of a battle in progress, but no one seemed to know where it was taking place. They had already marched twenty miles since dawn, and Gettysburg was still several miles ahead. As he strained to see familiar landmarks, he noticed a great pall of dust and smoke floating over the hills in the direction of home. This could mean only one thing: the battle was there. A cold fear gripped him. His sisters were there...and Ginnie was there. They knew little about the mindless savagery of war. What was happening to them? Perhaps, he thought, they had fled the town.
They arrived southwest of Gettysburg after the sun had set, and were ordered to bivouac within sight of the rocky hill that Wes knew well. He studied it in the dark, unable to believe how close he was to his childhood haunts. They had heard the sounds of fighting, smelled the acrid scent of gunpowder. Now, as they made camp, the guns were quiet. But the men were restless, voicing their concerns in the darkness around Wes.
“Why are we tenting here? We should have pushed on up that hill before them Yankees can dig in.”
“Yeah. Old Jack wouldn’t have let us lay about in front of them bluecoats.”
“That hill’s going to give us a heap of trouble. What’s the name of this place, anyway?”
“Gettysburg.” Wes spoke without thinking. They turned to him in the darkness.
“Who’s that? Culp? That’s right, boy, these are your stomping grounds, ain’t they. Where abouts did you grow up?”
Wes, staring at the dark hill, did not turn to face them. “Here,” he said. “This is my family’s land. That there is called Culp’s Hill.” His voice was low, but it carried in the warm night air. They quieted thoughtfully, understanding the implications of Wes’ words.
“You been up that hill before? What’s it like?” someone asked, after a time.
Wes looked up the hill, sobered by his recollections. “Oh, it’s just a hill,” he said, finally. “Lots of rocks on it. Have to cross a creek to get to the top.” There was more he could have said, but he decided against it.
He wondered to himself: what were the odds against something like this happening? He had planned to stay in the South, but the tides of war had washed him up on these shores once again. A year ago, when he had tried to get here by himself, he had been stopped. Now, it was as if the colossal events of this war had been designed for one purpose: to allow him to fulfill his personal destiny.
When Skelly had said to him, “If you ever get to Gettysburg, give Ginnie a message for me,” he had enjoyed playing with the idea of returning in triumph; but he realized that that was a fantasy. Yet, here he was, home again, not as a prisoner, but as a conqueror.
Ginnie was probably no more than a few hundred yards from him at this moment. He wondered how he could get to see her before the battle ended. He was close, but that final distance seemed farther than all the other miles combined. Frustrated, he bedded down well after midnight.
The thunder woke him long before the sun rose. He drowsed on the damp ground a moment, his first waking thought the same as his final thought the night before – how could he get to see Ginnie? He dreamed of her face, excited by what he had to tell her. The explosion of a shell nearby interrupted his reveries and shook him instantly awake.
The early morning was clear and warm, belying the thunder from the top of the hill to his front. The Federals had begun their bombardment early. Wes watched for a moment as the big guns spit their fire into the darkness. He heard the rumbling roll lazily down the hill, heard the high pitched wail of the projectiles which followed, saw the explosions which turned night into day for an instant. One of the shells impacted only a hundred feet away, causing Wes to duck reflexively, shielding himself against the hot metal rain that riddled the area.
The company was formed up and moved out to a point behind a slight ridge. Without having to be told, the men lay down, heads forward, and listened to the rhythmic explosions. Wes wasn’t afraid in the usual sense; it was merely an aggravation to have to face such danger when there were so many things he wanted to do. Let him see Ginnie, give him time to get this most important task accomplished, and then he would be ready to face anything.
It had been a long time since he had really feared death. The anticipation of battle was different than the fear of death. When he returned from prison, he had had nothing to live for and had approached the dangers of the battlefield indifferently. Now, however, with everything to live for, the thought of death here, at this moment, frightened him in a way it never had before.
After several minutes, the captain formed up the men and marched them to the southeast, away from the cannons. Wes was relieved, but felt the urge to move as fast as possible, fearing that at any moment a shell might explode overhead.
They reached the Hanover Road and marched eastward toward the Deardorf house. Wes had known one of the Deardorf boys in school and had worked on their farm a few times to earn extra cash. Before they reached the house, however, they were ordered off the road into position along a ridge that ran north and south across the road. He looked down on the fields below. In the first rays of sunlight, he could see a few houses dotting the landscape, like islands set down in a sea of wheat. Every place carried a memory. He remembered hiding in the woods with Will down to the left and throwing rotten apples at Storrick’s mule. He recalled how the old farmer had stormed up the hill after them, a stick in hand, his face red from the exertion. They had run away, easily eluding their pursuer, peppering him with a volley of youthful laughter.
As he looked down past the houses, there in the distance he saw a troop of cavalry, their blue coats just visible in the feeble morning light. The men around Wes questioned the sergeant as to why they had been brought here. They were told that they formed the extreme right flank of the Confederate line. As such, they were responsible for any Federal attempt to outmaneuver them. Such a movement could seriously jeopardize the entire Confederate position. The opening cannon fire had coincided with a Federal move to the east, and General Johnson had ordered that a regiment be sent to investigate. Since the 2nd was closest, Wes and the others had been pulled out of the frying pan and thrown into the fire.
Colonel Nadenbousch, Wes’ regimental commander, stormed by on horseback, field glasses out, surveying the Federals who were riding west down the Hanover Road toward them. He could see that they were sending skirmishers forward, so he called for his own skirmishers. One of his aides rode over to Wes’ company commander. As the two of them conferred, Wes held his breath; he knew what was coming.
He was to go forward with the rest of the company as skirmishers for the entire regiment, to fight in the very front lines. This was done to blunt the enemy attack by harassing them and weeding out any possible ambushes. In theory, the skirmishers were then to give ground, falling back to the main line where the battle would be joined. In both cases, the skirmishers were vulnerable, the first targets the enemy would see.
Wes heard the sergeant yell, “Form skirmish!” This was echoed down the line and the men stood, spreading out several paces from each other. “Forward, march!” echoed across the ridge. Wes felt the fear settle in his knees, the thick, heavy knowledge that the enemy was in sight, and that he saw you. He also knew that the eyes of the entire regiment were watching them move down the hill. Wes marched with his gun in front of him, waist level, the bayonet glinting in the morning sun.
It was difficult to see the Federal skirmishers because of the sun. But as the troops moved forward, he began to feel the firmness return to his step. As he waded into the foot-high wheat, he could make out the horsemen, now dismounted, moving forward to the right of a clump of trees in Storrick’s yard. A high-pitched whizzing sound over his head made him instinctively flinch. The line stopped, without a command, at a shallow indentation in the ground. Wes saw several of the others lie down and followed suit. Raising himself to look over the wheat, he fired his first shot, aiming with great care. He could see the Federals strung out along a line a hundred yards away. The pop-pop of the Federal carbines was higher-pitched than the low concussions of the Confederate rifles, and the morning air was filled with a continuous exchange of fire.
It had taken Wes time to get used to his new rifled musket. But like his old smoothbore, he had shortened its stock and carved his name in it, and by now was something of an expert marksman. He lay on his back to reload, pulling the ramrod up past his head and leaning it against his shoulder. He reached down into his waist pack, pulled a charge from it, then leaned off to the side to tear the paper away with his teeth. Carefully tilting the rifle up as far as his arms would allow, he poured the powder down the barrel. A sudden breeze blew some into his eye, temporarily blinding him with pain. After trying to clear his eye with filthy hands, he pushed the ball into the mouth of the barrel, holding it tight with his left thumb. With his right hand, he reached up, took the ramrod leaning against his shoulder and shoved the bullet home. Then, as he had a thousand times before, he rubbed the carved letters of his name for good luck and looked toward the enemy to pick a target. He squeezed his trigger and felt the familiar concussion against his shoulder.
This maneuver was repeated over and over with mindless precision: loading, aiming, firing, reloading. It was difficult to tell whether he was actually hitting anything. But he didn’t really care, and it seemed that the men across the way were equally unconcerned. Both sides seemed content to hold each other at bay with only cursory attempts to gain ground. Occasionally, one of the Confederates would run forward a few paces and dramatically throw himself down behind a larger boulder or into a deeper gully which offered a little more protection. It looked heroic but Wes knew that in most cases it was motivated only by a desire for self-preservation.
Wes had a veteran’s knowledge of what created heroes in war. It usually had nothing to do with cowardice or courage; most often it involved sheer luck. To this point, Wes reflected, he had been a little shy on luck, always too late or in the wrong place. A common foot soldier’s primary goal was to fight and to stay alive. But now, in this place, perhaps his luck would begin to change.
The sun began its descent into late afternoon. He had lain in the field most of the day and his waist pack was almost empty for the second time. A brave ammunition boy scurrying along the line had filled it once. Somehow, the boy had managed to avoid the bullets that whizzed past him, his movement among the men making him a prime target. But Wes, searching for him now, could not see him anywhere and wondered briefly whether he had been killed.
Suddenly, he heard a loud cheer somewhere to the rear, the high-pitched wail of Confederates on the move, and he knew that the order had been given to advance. He was up on his knees before the sergeant gave the command.
The skirmishers moved forward as one, hunched low and sweeping through the wheat toward the slight rise which the Federal troopers occupied. Wes’ heart pounded with excitement, his fear vanishing as adrenaline surged into his blood. Bullets whistled past him, but as they closed the space between the lines, leading the way for the rest of the brigade, he saw the troopers begin to waver. Wes ran, still holding his rifle at waist height, bayonet forward. The Federal troopers watched them come, the sun from the west now in their eyes.
One enemy soldier, directly in front of Wes, looked at him, then turned his head from side to side as if trying to see what his comrades were doing. They both noticed that the Yankee line was beginning to collapse. Finally, as the distance closed to several hundred feet, the man in front of Wes aimed and fired directly at him, then turned and ran. Wes never missed a step, never heard the bullet pass, which told him that it had missed by a wide margin. The Confederate skirmishers paused at the top of the rise that had until a moment ago been held by the Federals. They turned to the main body of troops, storming up behind them, and shouted their triumph. Wes waved them forward, then took off down the hill after the retreating bluecoats.
It was a wondrous feeling, exhilarating. He was on the leading edge of this victory and the glory lust was in his blood. The main line of Federal troops waited at the crest of the next rise, off the Hanover Road toward the Storrick farm. Wes and the rest of the skirmishers sprinted toward the troops with a blood-chilling yell, caught up in the fury of battle.
A bugle call sounded ahead of him. Wes recognized it as a call for retreat and ran all the faster. The enemy line began to recoil away from the assault in confusion. Up ahead, Wes saw a man on horseback, his epaulettes marking him as an officer. He was looking the other way, his pistol raised over his head, trying to control his men as they pulled back. Thus, he was momentarily unaware that the leading Confederate skirmishers were bearing down on him.
Wes never broke stride. Holding his empty rifle by the barrel, he swung it with all his strength, using his momentum to add power to the blow, and struck the horse solidly in the chest. The mare, rearing, caught the officer off guard. The man slid out of the saddle, his hands clawing at the air as he fell. The horse bolted and the officer landed squarely on his back, the pistol bouncing out of his grasp. Wes grabbed it from the ground just as another Federal soldier rushed forward to cover the fallen officer. His rifle was pointed directly at Wes, the bayonet twenty feet away. Wes fell to one knee and fired instinctively, hitting the man in the shoulder. Spinning from the impact, he fell sideways with a scream.
The unhorsed officer was struggling to his feet, but Wes immediately rammed the tip of his bayonet against the man’s chest, shoving him back to the ground and holding him there. Looking around for support, Wes realized that the three of them were alone. The rest of the Federals had retreated, and the main body of Confederates was still several hundred feet away, marching forward at a deliberate pace. Wes stood waiting, his bayonet point firmly pressed against the chest of the officer, whom he now saw to be a captain. The trooper whom he had shot lay on his back, and Wes could see that he was too badly injured to cause a problem.
The Confederates finally arrived, running past him in pursuit of the main body of northern troops. An officer riding past stopped to gaze down at Wes and the captured officer.
“Good work, soldier. Take them back to General Walker. He’s up on the hill.”
The officer returned Wes’ salute and spurred off after the troops. A tingle of pride worked its way up Wes’ spine. Trying to sound gruff, he ordered, “On your feet.” He watched the officer struggle up from the ground and pause to brush off his soiled uniform. The wounded man had his eyes open now, and Wes walked over to kick the man’s rifle away. The officer turned to the wounded man and, ignoring Wes, knelt beside him.
“Sergeant Dow, can you walk?”
The sergeant tried to rise, grimacing in pain. “With a little help, I believe I can, sir.”
The captain assisted the sergeant to his feet, holding him up by his good arm. Without pausing to see if Wes was ready, they began to stumble toward the Confederate rear, a ridge now vacant save for a few officers peering through field glasses.
Wes followed behind the men, his bayonet at the ready, the pistol tucked into his pants. The fading light cast a golden hue on the wheat, and a gentle breeze blew over Wes’ face. Never had he felt prouder than at this moment. For once, he had been in exactly the right place at the right moment.
Wes’ charges stumbled to a stop before the officers lining the ridge, watching the action below. Indicating General Walker, the brigade commander, sitting on a fence rail eating an apple, Wes nudged the men in his direction. He escorted them proudly to the general who looked up with a slight smile.
The Federal captain stepped forward, after judging that the sergeant could stand alone, and saluted. “Captain Lownsbury, 10th New York Cavalry. Sir.”
General Walker returned the salute, his pocket knife still in his hand. “At ease, Captain.” Wes stood back as the general quizzed the prisoner about the forces in the field below, trying to discover whether there were reserves beyond sight.
Ben walked up to Wes and nudged him. “Looks like you had a good day, soldier,” he said quietly, so as not to disturb the General’s conversation. Wes beamed at his friend, nodding. “You’d better knock that grin off your face,” Ben added, “or somebody’s going to think you enjoy capturing Yankees.”
In an instant, Wes’ mood changed. He whispered urgently, “Ben, I have to get a pass. I have to make sure she’s all right.”
Ben looked at Wes for a moment, considering the request. Then he broke into the familiar smile which Wes knew so well. “You think you’ve earned it, eh? Well, see what I can do.”
Wes closed his mouth, trying to look serious but the grin kept creeping back. The General was talking and Wes tried to concentrate on what he was saying to the prisoners. “Well, I think this battle is well in hand. If we’re victorious here, I believe it’ll just about end the war. Which means that you shouldn’t be a prisoner overly long. But, until we can properly dispose of you, you’ll be placed in a holding area to the rear. Pendleton!”
Ben stepped to the general’s side and saluted. “Sir?”
Walker craned his neck to look at him. “See that these men are taken to the stockade, and make sure that the sergeant gets some medical attention.” The general, paring another apple, used the knife to indicate Sergeant Dow.
Ben said loudly, “Yes, sir.” Then he leaned toward the general, speaking quietly. Walker listened intently, then looked at Wes. He stared fiercely for a moment until Wes’ neck began to prickle. Then he said something to Ben, who beckoned for Wes to approach. Wes walked up awkwardly, both frightened and in awe at being in the presence of a general.
“General Walker, this is Private Culp,” Ben said quietly
“At ease, Private.” Wes relaxed slightly, allowing his eyes to brush across the large man’s collar with its silver star.
“Pendleton here tells me this is your town.” Wes was momentarily confused, wondering if the general disapproved. “He also tells me that you’re a damned good soldier,” Walker continued. “I must say, it’s a pleasure to have a Pennsylvania man fighting in the Stonewall Brigade.”
Wes was so surprised by this unexpected remark that he looked the general in the eye and was rewarded with a broad smile.
“Take these men you captured back to the stockade near town. And in return for your good effort today, you’re granted an eight-hour pass to see that your people are safe.” The general’s expression sobered as he added, “As long as you promise to get back here on time. We’ll need every man we have tomorrow.” He scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to Ben.
Walker saluted as a sign that Wes was dismissed. Wes stood there for a moment, astonished that the general had saluted him first and, eventually, had the presence of mind to return the salute. But the general had already gone back to the business of peeling his apple. Wes turned smartly and marched off to where Ben stood.
“Well, get out of here,” Ben said. “Time’s a-wasting.” He handed Wes the pass, then pushed him and his prisoners off in the direction of Gettysburg.