Lavelle surveyed the might of the two armies arrayed against each other. It was indeed a glorious sight: the grey and blue formations of infantry and horse; flags flying; sun-splashed sabres; the glinting of cannon, caisson and gun.
‘Every man, boy and child in America must be here,’ Lavelle exclaimed to himself. A sense of tremulous excitement began to rise in him. This was what brought men to the cauldron. To be part of a great design, partake in the grandeur of war – this splendid game. Yet it was all so raw, so primitive, so savage – tribe against tribe. ‘Whatever war is – we’re here … we’re it,’ he said out loud, then focused on the particular task at hand. Wherever, amongst the milling thousands would he find Stephen Joyce? Slowly he rotated the long-range lens of his rifle through the Rebel ranks of the Army of Northern Virginia. Hand unsteady, his scanning of Lee’s army was erratic, so that when he got to the end of the seemingly never-ending long grey line, he was forced to start again.
It was no use. There were too many of them, and they were moving – anxious for fighting, outnumbered and all, as they were. Gettysburg was the ‘high tide’ for the Confederacy. A decisive win here on Northern soil – and the North would be dispirited … the North would crumble. Lee knew that. Today there would be fierce fighting. Today would be bloody.
Lavelle, himself, was ready to crumble with the North. The heat, the relentless marching, the continuous bloodbath it had all become. If the Rebels won today and the North surrendered, it wouldn’t have worried him too much. Not that he thought the North ever would surrender. They couldn’t … and not while the politicians could still dupe the next draft of sitting ducks to fill up the ranks, to be next in the firing line.
One way or the other, Lavelle was going to get out after Gettysburg. He had been one of the fortunate ones. The Irish Brigade had been cut to shreds, the losses so high, it caused the Little Bishop to say that ‘The Brigade lost half of Ireland while fighting for America.’ Recently Lavelle had begun loosely to think that a bullet itself might be kind, finish everything off … be a blessed relief. Be killed, instead of killing. It was a dangerous thought. Could take hold in the mind … make a sharpshooter not sharp … but shoddy … and slow.
If it wasn’t for her. Yet, he was no nearer to finding her – and the Gettysburg crossroads was as about as likely a place as the Horn of Africa. But Stephen Joyce he might find here. Somewhere in the midst of all this mayhem.
Sulphurous smoke rose in great billowing clouds across his line of vision, as cannons pounded the skies, in a misguided kind of industry.
He would just have to wait, be patient. He decided his most effective plan would be to follow the flags. If he could find the Louisianians, then he would perhaps find Stephen. Even when the smoke cleared, it would still be difficult. The general mêlée of close-range charges and hand-to-hand combat would also prove an obstacle to identifying anybody. But he was trained for this … to seek and destroy a single individual. To follow that soldier’s path, be patient in the kill. Today, he would seek out no other enemy soldier but one.
Stephen Joyce.
Again and again, his face squeezed against his gun-barrel, his eye squinted to the sights, Lavelle’s gaze travelled over and back, and back and over the Confederate lines. Even while he looked, great gaps appeared in their ranks, the fallen matting the fields and hedgerows like some great blight on the land. For a moment Lavelle surveyed his own side.
Equally did they fall.
Momentarily a pang of conscience assailed him. He should be killing those who were killing his comrades.
He returned to the Rebels, and waited and watched, until the blood-drenched day was in its last frightful hurrah. His whole body ached, his eyes stung with the smoke of sulphur. It had been another fruitless day of many in the past months. No Stephen Joyce.
He began to doubt that Stephen was still with the Confederacy. Maybe, like General Meagher, Stephen too, had resigned. Or been already killed.
Then a pall of smoke from another killing explosion, rose and lifted clear of its victims. From behind it like some apocalyptic vision fading into sight, Lavelle saw him. Knew him instantly. The tall angular body astride the prancing chestnut, sword in hand urging on the grey hordes in front of him.
He levelled his sharpshooter’s rifle. Stephen Joyce was in his sights and well within his accuracy. One shot and the despoiler of his family would be just another Confederate casualty. No one need know the history behind the speeding bullet – the betrayal, the loss of love, the family tragedy … Patrick.
A further cloud of battle-smoke obscured Lavelle’s target. He had waited for this moment a long time – all the pavements of Boston, the rail-splitting miles to California, and all the dog-weary miles from Louisiana … to Gettysburg. It had driven him onwards, sharpened his will to survive all hazards.
Now he was here.
When the smoke cleared Stephen Joyce was still there.
In an instant Lavelle changed his mind. He had to confront his once-friend, see his face. Find out about Ellen, before he killed the man.
Leaving his place of cover, Lavelle ran low, back into the right flank of his own lines. Then he saw a small band of New Yorkers push forward into the Confederate midriff. He jostled and elbowed his way forward to join with these. They had formed themselves into a small circular group – watching their flanks and their rear as well as the enemy ahead. The fighting was toe to toe, each foothold of ground fought for, with spent muskets being used as clubs.
‘The bayonet alone is wise,’ Lavelle said to himself, now affixing the dreaded gun-knife to his weapon. Normally he had little use of it, today he might well have. The little band of Union soldiers he was with broke through the battle-line forcing the Rebels to retreat. Lavelle was now not thirty yards from his enemy.
‘Stephen Joyce!’ Lavelle shouted above the din.
He saw the horseman jerk the bit, turn around to face him. Then the look of recognition; the surprise as Stephen saw his old compatriot, now in the Union Blue of the enemy.
Lavelle broke through into a clear space between them. Stephen edged the seething chestnut towards the same space.
‘Lavelle … old comrade – you’re on the wrong side!’ Stephen shouted, laughingly.
Lavelle now stood in front of the edgy animal. ‘No, Stephen – not I, but you fighting for bondage instead of freedom.’
Stephen looked at him – no sense of past comradeship on Lavelle’s face. ‘Lavelle!’ he tried again. ‘We may be at arms but we are brothers-in-arms!’
‘We might have been … before this!’ And Lavelle thrust the book, stained with Patrick’s blood into Stephen’s hand. The mounted man looked at it – a darkness coming on his brow.
‘It was you who found Patrick … the book?’ Stephen said, some darker-still realisation striking him.
‘It was I, Stephen, who killed my own son,’ Lavelle replied. ‘What matter if mistakenly … from a distance …’ His words trailed off.
Stephen looked at his old friend. The loss of Ellen, then Patrick’s death, had exacted more than the toll of time and battle. Lavelle was heart-weary, his handsome face gravelled with the disillusionment of life. Stephen remembered his own promise to Ellen. ‘Lavelle – I am sorry to hear that. Sorry for everything. I never meant to dishonour you. I have loved her from first I saw her, long before your time. What force it was that drew us together again, I do not know.’
‘You betrayed my trust, Stephen – seduced her with fine words – not even your own!’
Without awaiting an answer, Lavelle then flung himself at Stephen, catching his tunic, unhorsing him. The other man did not resist.
‘God knows I loved her, Lavelle! But I won’t kill you for her. You should go to her, Lavelle!’ Stephen said.
‘Where is she?’ Lavelle demanded.
‘She is here – on the battlegrounds,’ Stephen said, turning his back to walk away.
Enraged that Ellen was somewhere nearby and still with Stephen, Lavelle charged at the retreating uniform, knocking Stephen to the ground. Knowing that Lavelle had misunderstood him, Stephen called out, ‘No, Lavelle! Not as you …’
‘You’ll fight! By God, Stephen, you’ll fight!’ Lavelle rasped at him.
Then, oblivious to the raging battle, the two men circled each other, Stephen with his Griswaldmade, push dagger, Lavelle with no less a fatal blade – curved, its tip like a harpooning fork. Steel would talk with steel – till one or other was silenced.
And so it waged between them, North and South, comrade against comrade. For love … for country … for pride … for revenge – it mattered not now in the rage that consumed them. Nor was even survival the cause which now fuelled their ferocity. Only to bring death to the other.
The slash and thrust of the knives bloodied their faces – slicing the battle-clothes they wore. Soon they were indistinguishable – blue or grey. Nor could one best the other – deliver the mortal blow.
Then Lavelle tripped against something behind him – a dead comrade’s arm – lost his footing, half stumbling backwards towards the ground. Stephen was upon him then. Held him up a moment and drew back the push dagger to drive it home.
‘I am sorry, Lavelle!’ Stephen said, regret momentarily staying his hand.
Lavelle felt the rush of wind that preceded the thrust. He tried to shake free of the full driving force of the blade, succeeding in sending his own curved messenger to Stephen’s breast.
‘It is finished!’ Stephen said, withdrawing his weapon from Lavelle. Then he took his friend’s face in his hands and kissed him.
Lavelle started to say something, tried to remove his own weapon from Stephen but their combined strength could no longer keep them afoot and they sank to the ground. Beside each other they lay then, on the spent battlefield.
‘She is here,’ Stephen said. ‘Not with me but with the wounded.’
‘Ellen …?’ Lavelle asked.
‘Yes, Ellen … she received Patrick’s body,’ Stephen said.
Lavelle somehow pushed himself up to look at the man. ‘Here …? Ellen … here … she knows … about Patrick?’
Stephen Joyce nodded. ‘She seeks your forgiveness, Lavelle – as do I.’
Lavelle gave a little laugh. ‘Forgiveness …?’ He took a moment. ‘I have long sought her and long forgiven her … as I now do you, Stephen …’
‘You still love her …’ Stephen stated.
‘After everything … and before everything.’ Lavelle paused … ‘And you – Stephen?’
‘No … ! No … ! It was a thing apart …’ the Confederate captain lied. ‘It has long since passed.’
Lavelle listened, the fickleness of all things swimming in his mind – friendship … freedom … forgiveness … love … mankind itself.
Here at death’s door, their life-blood ripening the earth, how hard it still was for men to be free … about truth. Truth – the first casualty of war … and of life.
‘Yes!’ Lavelle said, accepting the untruth.