Gettysburg, 2nd July 1863
Lavelle fell to his knees.
There was something about this day. Apart from the heat.
Around him, every man of the Irish Brigade also fell to kneeling, their heads bowed down. They had been woken at three-thirty and on the move since four-thirty that morning, marching along the Taneytown Road, from Round Tops, three miles south of Gettysburg. Lavelle and the men had been grateful to be able to lay down their heads on the Northern soil of Pennsylvania, for the previous night’s rest. For the month of June they had tramped and trampled across the Rebel territories of Virginia and Maryland chasing Robert E Lee, the Confederate general. Some days it had been fifteen or eighteen miles. On 29 June it had been thirty-four.
Lavelle was ragged and tired and like all the men he was unsure of the new general – Meade – who only a week previously had replaced General Hooker at the head of the Union army. Hooker had been blamed for the loss at Chancellorsville in May. It was the Brigade’s first engagement of the new battle year – their last since the slaughter at Fredericksburg, before Christmas.
General Meagher had also gone in May. Tendered his resignation, piqued over not getting his way to raise more recruits for his sadly-depleted Brigade. No longer having a Brigade to ‘general’ as the general saw it. But Lavelle was happy with the new Commander of the Irish Brigade – Colonel Kelly, from Castlehackett in County Galway. Not flamboyant like Meagher, a decent man, well respected and calm under fire. Came out in 1850, after the Famine, Lavelle had heard.
But what were all the generals up to? The armies had been assembled here all morning. Now it was almost noon and nothing much had happened. Everybody waiting. For what, Lavelle wondered? He remonstrated with himself. What was the hurry either?
Soon enough they would be at battle; the uniforms in which they now knelt, their ‘grave clothes’. He tightened his grip on his single-shot Enfield rifle, tried not to think about it. Focused his attention instead on the chaplain to the Irish Brigade, Father Corby, who stood atop a boulder in front of the two massed armies.
Never before had Lavelle felt such an apprehension as he felt today. And there was no cause.
Word had come down that the Army of the Potomac, under Meade, had over 90,000 troops and three hundred and fifty cannon. The Rebels, under General Lee had but 75,000 troops, and less than three hundred cannon – and were greatly outnumbered. Victory would be with the Union. Though worryingly, yesterday had seen Lee’s army win the day and take many prisoners.
Lavelle looked at the countryside around him. Both armies amassed in a great blue and grey arc, on the ridges surrounding this insignificant Pennsylvanian town, Gettysburg.
Cemetery Ridge lay between them and the Rebels, Cemetery Hill to their right. Lavelle pondered the names; Cemetery Ridge, Devil’s Den, the Wheatfield, the Peach Orchard. The names all seemed at odds with each other – simple and colourful farm-country names and dark, death-conjuring names.
This battle would reflect that contrast. Would be both the brightest day and the darkest night.
He thought of his letter to Ellen, felt for it in his tunic. Shivered.
Father Corby, hatless, receding hairline and long dark beard, like some prophet of old, held one hand outstretched, the other placed solemnly on his breast. He wore his long cassock to the ground. Around his neck was draped a purple confessional stole. The little priest, raised up on his rock, reminded all – Papish, Presbyterian, Protestant, and Jew alike, of their sacred duty as soldiers, the nobility of their cause. To drive the message home he cautioned how, ‘The Catholic Church refuses Christian burial to the soldier who turns his back upon the foe or deserts his flag.’
He then proposed to give a general absolution of all their sins, prior to battle, provided the men embraced the first opportunity of confessing them afterwards.
Lavelle prayed for courage and made a sincere Act of Contrition, as the roar of battle resounded from nearby Little Round Top. He felt edgy. ‘O my God … heartily sorry …’ The words seemed to come in little pent-up gushes. ‘… firmly resolve … never more to offend Thee … amend my life.’
Father Corby then extended his hand towards the multitude of men and pronounced in Latin the words that would purge their souls of all sin. Thus allowing them swift passage to eternal life, should they fall that day, and be taken from this mortal one.
‘Dominus noster Jesus Christus vos absolvat, et ego auctoritate ipsius, vos absolvo ab vinculo excommunicationis et interdicti, in quantum possum …’
The general absolution from sin was for all, whether North or South whether present or not. For all about to appear before their Maker that Gettysburg day.
‘Et vos indigetis, deinde, ego absolvo vos a peccatisvestris …’
Lavelle blessed himself at the ‘… in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.’ The priest’s absolution had resigned him to whatever fate now lay in store. The monotonic agelessness of the Latin, strangely calming.
‘Amen!’
‘Load! Fix bayonets!’ At the word of command, Lavelle was already on his feet and moving out quickly. He needed to pick his spot. From where, he could oversee the battle. Wreak more damage on the enemy.
A mile away on Seminary Ridge the massed forces of the Army of Northern Virginia waited. Amongst them, Stephen Joyce – champing for battle. Asking his God, not for deliverance … but for victory.