Rally Cry Read online

  Rally Cry

  William R. Forstchen

  ROC

  First Printing, May, 1990

  Copyright © William R. Forstchen, 1990

  Content

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Book I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Book II

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the Author

  Lost Regiment Series

  Dedication

  For Kathy and Carl Livollen, who deserved their own book so long ago.

  For Christine Poole, with a special thanks for her help and wonderful friendship.

  And finally a bit of a sentimental dedication as well—for all those boys from Maine, for after all most of them were only boys, who gave their lives more than a century ago to preserve the Union, and to end the scourge of slavery. May we never forget their dreams for this country, as we reach for the stars.

  Acknowledgments

  A special thanks to Mr. John Keane, great-grandnephew of Andrew Lawrence Keane, and president of the 35th Maine Historical Society, who first shared with me the interesting story of that famed regiment's history over a decade ago. Through his tireless help I was able to contact a number of descendants of members of the regiment and examine a wide variety of documents related to its illustrious history, which helped so much in the creation of this story.

  For the interested traveler, a monument to the 35th is located in the small hamlet of Keane, Maine, a short drive down coast from Freeport, Maine. It's a simple affair, so typical of Maine. A bronze plaque bears the names of the six hundred and thirteen men who set voyage on that fateful trip, and above the plaque the statue of a Union soldier looks out to sea.

  Good luck finding it!

  Book I

  Chapter 1

  January 2,1865

  City Point , Virginia (major supply and shipment center supporting the Union Army besieging Petersburg and Richmond)

  The thunder of artillery rumbled across the storm-lashed midnight sky. Turning in his saddle, Andrew Lawrence Keane looked back, as if the distant flashes were a siren song, whispering for him to return into the caldron of flame.

  "Not our fight anymore, colonel."

  "It feels strange to be leaving it, Hans," Andrew said softly, and even as he spoke he continued to look back, watching as the silhouette of Petersburg was revealed by the bursting shells.

  "Strange to be leaving, is it? Damn glad, I am," Hans snapped. "We've been in the trenches before that damn rebel city for the last six months. It'll be good to stretch our legs and see something else for a while, even if it does mean we've got to take one of them damn boats to get there."

  Pulling out a plug of tobacco, Hans bit off an end, and then offered a chew to his colonel.

  Andrew smiled and waved his hand, declining the offer. For two years Hans had been offering him a chew and for two years he'd always turned him down. Shifting his gaze away from the gunfire, Andrew looked down at his sergeant major. The man's face was dark, like weathered canvas, and careworn and thin, wreathed in a beard flecked with streaks of gray. The lines about his eyes were deeply engraved from the years out on the prairie, watching across its shimmering heat and snow-covered vastness. The scar on his cheek from the Comanche arrow was a souvenir of twenty-one years' service in the army. It wasn't the only scar, and as the sergeant continued to walk by Andrew's side, a slight limp was noticeable, a gift from a reb sniper before Cold Harbor.

  Looking down at his friend, Andrew remembered the first time the offer for a chew had been made, and a smile lit his features, even though the memory still embarrassed him.

  Antietam was their first fight together. He had been a green and frightened lieutenant, and Sergeant Major Hans Schuder was the only veteran with the newly recruited 35th Maine. With five thousand men of the first corps, they had crossed the forty-acre cornfield, trampling down the ripened stalks on that September morning in '62. Forever afterward one simply had to say "the Cornfield" and any veteran of either the Union or Confederate side knew what it meant. In crossing that field, they stepped through the gate to hell.

  The rebs had hit them from three sides. One moment all had been quiet; he could even remember the cries of the startled birds above them as they left the field and crashed into the woods beyond. In a moment the silence of that morning was washed away in fire and smoke, and the roaring scream of ten thousand rebs smashed into them.

  He had stood transfixed, terrified, his company captain screaming out commands to him. An instant later the captain lay spread-eagled upon the ground, his unseeing eyes staring up at Andrew, a puddle of blood and brains beneath him.

  All he could think of was getting behind the nearest tree, so another such bullet would not find him as well. Dammit, his terrified mind had screamed out, you're a professor of history! What in hell are you doing here?

  And then that soft, gravelly voice had whispered to him.

  "Son, would you care for a chew?"

  Old Hans was standing beside him, offering a plug of tobacco. He barely came to Andrew's shoulder, his five-and-a-half-foot frame contrasting to Andrew's slender, almost fragile six feet and several inches of height. At that moment Andrew still remembered Hans as if he were a giant towering above him, cold gray eyes staring into his.

  "Lieutenant, the regiment's shot to hell and pulling back. I think you'd better help lead the boys out of here." He spoke as if advising a lad momentarily confused by the rules of a strange new game.

  And in that moment Andrew started on the path of becoming a soldier, for what else could he do, with those eyes upon him.

  That evening Colonel Estes had come to Andrew and promoted him to captain for displaying such cool-headed courage on the field. The men of his company had patted him on the back, calling him a stout fellow who knew how to lead. He knew that before the battle Estes had had his doubts, and openly mumbled about having a bespectacled, bookish college teacher in his command. But that night Andrew knew that at last he'd been accepted.

  The curious thing about it, Andrew thought, was that he could not remember what he had done. All he could recall was how, throughout the day, Hans had stood by him, just standing, watching, and occasionally offering advice.

  "Son, I saw you," Hans said to him that evening, "I saw you and knew you'd be a soldier, once you learned how. You'll do well in this war, if you don't get kilt first."

  That was the last time Hans had ever called him "son." From then on it was Captain Andrew Lawrence Keane, and Hans spoke the words with pride, as if he had somehow molded them.

  After Fredricksburg it was Major Keane, and Hans, who knew all the workings of the army, patiently tutored him, with a thousand anecdotes and tales, on how to be an officer who could lead.

  And then there was Gettysburg.

  On the afternoon of the first day they stood under a hot July sun. The smell of crushed hay rose from beneath their feet as they waited for the storm approaching from the west.

  It was as if an ocean of butternut and gray were sweeping toward them, twenty thousand rebs pouring down off Mc-Pherson's Ridge, a chorus of fifty cannons heralding their approach.

  It was there that Andrew truly felt the strange, thrilling joy of it all. Red flash blossoms of death crashed about
them, while the long thin line of blue waited like a stone wall to break the approaching wave.

  The reb gunners quickly found their range, and the regiment was bracketed by a dozen thunderclap bursts. In that fraction of a moment Colonel Estes no longer existed and Andrew stood alone, in command of the 35th.

  The line wavered, for all the men had seen their beloved colonel fall.

  But this time there was no need for Hans to whisper to him. Unsheathing his sword, Andrew stepped before the ranks and, turning, faced what was now his regiment.

  "Hell's gonna freeze over before they take this hill," he roared, and his men shouted back their defiance to the enemy.

  The storm broke upon them and they held, trading volley for volley at fifty paces.

  All through that hot afternoon of hell they stood, the heavy double line melting beneath the sun and flame into a thin ragged knot of men who would not run. His heart had swelled to bursting and tears of pride would blind him as he paced the volley line, shouting encouragement, stopping occasionally to pick up a fallen musket and fire, while Hans strode beside him, never saying a word.

  There was, however, that one numbing moment when he turned to Hans to somehow find consolation. Going down to the left of the regiment, to check on whether the 80th New York were still holding their flank, he stopped for a moment with Company A.

  His younger brother, Johnnie, had joined the regiment but the week before. He wanted to send the boy to a safe job in the rear, but pride had prevented him from showing favorites.

  That damn foolish pride.

  John, what was left of him, was lying as if asleep beneath the shade of an ancient maple tree.

  Andrew gazed upon the fragile broken body, and then to Hans. But the old sergeant was silent, grim-faced, as if telling him that now was not the time to mourn. Kneeling down, Andrew kissed his only brother, and then rose blindly, to return to the fight.

  In the end the division finally gave way, and within minutes the entire army was streaming back to the safety of the hills on the other side of Gettysburg.

  But his regiment did not run. Knowing someone would have to slow the reb advance in order to buy time, Andrew understood his duty—if need be, to sacrifice his command.

  Step by step they gave ground slowly, firing a volley, retreating a dozen paces, and firing again. The rebs lapped over around the flanks, but could not press on till this final barrier was removed. But the 35th refused to break.

  Pulling back to the edge of town, they blocked the streets, and the time was bought. Two-thirds of his men were gone, paying the price for a precious fifteen minutes that might decide who would finally win.

  Raising his sword, Andrew started to shout the command to pull back to Cemetery Hill, and then the blinding lash of fire swept over him. The last thing he could ever recall of Gettysburg was the falling away into a great gentle dark-ness, which he thought was the coming of death.

  As if from a great distance a voice called, and Andrew stirred from his reverie.

  "Did you say something, sergeant?"

  "Just asked if your wound troubled you, sir," Hans said, looking at him with concern.

  "No, not at all, Hans, not at all," and as he spoke he realized that he had been absently rubbing the stump of his left arm with his right hand.

  Hans watched him for a moment, like a mother gazing upon her injured child. He grumbled as if to himself, and spat out a stream of tobacco juice. They rode on in silence until finally they crested a low hill, where the military depot and anchorage of City Point lay spread out before them.

  "There's the boat, sir," and Hans pointed down the road to where a single transport rested, tied off to the dock.

  "Never did like those damn things," Hans growled. "When I came over here in '44 thought I was like to die."

  As he spoke of the memory the German accent returned.

  Andrew always thought it a bit of a paradox. Here Hans had deserted the Prussian army to escape the brutality, and the first thing he did when reaching the States was enlist to go fight on the plains.

  "35th Maine!" a voice shouted from out of the shadows. "Is this the 35th?"

  "Over here," Hans snapped, and a portly man came lumbering up from the dock.

  "You're late—we've already missed the damn tide!"

  Hans bristled at the man's tone.

  "And who the hell are you?" the sergeant snapped.

  The dark shadowy form looked at the sergeant and without comment turned away.

  "Where the hell is this Keane fellow?"

  Andrew held out his hand to stop Hans.

  "I'm the one you're looking for," Andrew said softly,

  bringing his horse up till it brushed against the rotund man, forcing him to step back a pace.

  "And whom do I have the honor of addressing?" he continued slowly, in a tone that Hans knew was deceptive, since Andrew usually became almost deferentially quiet before he exploded.

  "Ship's Captain Tobias Cromwell of the transport Ogunquit. Damn it all, colonel, you were supposed to be here yesterday morning. The rest of the fleet sailed yesterday afternoon. Everyone else is aboard and waiting for your command, so we can get the hell out of here!"

  "We were delayed," Andrew replied, still holding his temper in check. "Seems the rebs had a little farewell entertainment planned and my brigadier needed to hold us in reserve till the party was over."

  "Damn poor planning, I say," Tobias snapped. "Now get those men of yours aboard so we can get out of here. I don't like it one damn bit that my ship is the last one to sail. And remember this, colonel—aboard my ship you and your men answer to me."

  Without waiting for a response the captain turned and stormed away toward the dock, shouting imprecations at any who stood in his way.

  "Well, I'll be damned," Hans growled softly.

  "Let's hope not," and dismounting, Andrew ordered Hans to see to the boarding of the men.

  "Well, I'll be damned. ..." The thought whispered through him. It'd been a vague premonition that had hung over him ever since Gettysburg.

  Three nightmare months he had spent in the hospital, his shattered arm gone, tortured by fear-tossed dreams that fate was now toying with him, sweeping him on a tide he could no longer swim against. The nights were filled with the screams of dying men, filled with the haunted eyes of boys who had seen too much, and the mute faces of the dead looking at him from the shadows of a distant land. But worst of all was the one dream that still brought him up screaming and thrashing in the sweat-soaked sheets.

  For three months he had healed, at least outwardly. In spite of his premonition of fear, his pulse quickened at the thought of returning to the madness. With his wound, and the Congressional Medal of Honor that Lincoln had pinned to his pillow, he could have gone back to Maine in honored retirement. Instead he had rushed back to the front, as if racing to a lover's embrace.

  He loved the fury and the pageantry, the power war pumped into his veins even as it tried to kill him. When the thunder boiled over in the distance, and the popcorn rattle of musketry called from up the road, his heart would again race madly, and he would be filled with a fierce, all-consuming joy once more. It somehow transported him, sweeping him up and causing him to forget himself, his former life, and the memories of the woman who had wounded his soul.

  How could he return to the quiet of Bowdoin College, now that he had tasted of the blood-filled chalice?

  So he had returned to command the 35th. It was now a shattered regiment, yet a regiment of men who somehow felt a perverse pride for the killing he had done to them.

  It was a regiment that he led through the Wilderness, and finally into the scorching trenches before Petersburg. And all the time the nightmare voice had whispered to him that they were all damned. That the fighting would go on until finally they were all dead. Dead by his shouted commands, until only he alone would be left, blood-dripping sword in hand.

  And, God help him, somehow he loved it so. For here, thin and bespectacled, a
slender, frail slip of a man with a body near shattered, he felt himself truly alive.

  Through the rain-swept shadows his boys, boys of eighteen and twenty years with the eyes of old men, passed before him and filed aboard the ship that would take them to yet another battlefield somewhere down on the North Carolina coast. To a battlefield yet unnamed where he would be forced to feed more boys like John into the furnace. Boys whom he had come to love. Their dark smiling faces, forever changing to be replaced by new faces, yet always the same, looking to him and him alone, for he was, after all, the hero of Gettysburg.

  Reining his mount off to the side of the road, he sat in silence and watched his men march past, boarding the ship to whatever destiny the fates had laid out before them.

  "Say, Hawthorne, there's the ship."

  Vincent Hawthorne raised his eyes from the back of the man in front of him and saw the shadow of his commander and the ship awaiting them.

  "Wonder how many of us bloody Keane will kill this time."

  "Come on, Hinsen, he ain't that bad," Vincent replied.

  "All officers are bastards," Jim Hinsen snarled. "Look what he did to us at Gettysburg, and in the Wilderness for that matter—plugged us right in the middle of the fight, the bastard did."

  "Shut up, you little cuss, you damn whining cur!" Sergeant Barry snapped in his high staccato voice, coming up beside them. "You two weren't even there! You're nothing but fresh fish, damned draftees and bounty boys, so don't say 'us' when you speak of this regiment, until you've seen the elephant and earned the right."

  "I didn't say anything against him," Vincent replied softly.

  "Well, I'd better not hear it," Barry responded, "and if I were you I'd stay away from Hinsen here."

  Without another word Barry pushed forward to help guide the men onto the ship.

  "Bastards, they're all bastards," Hinsen mumbled, his voice barely heard.

  Shamed, Vincent didn't respond. It was true that he was a fresh fish, joining the regiment only within the last month. But how could he explain that as a Quaker, he had joined only after a long moral fight within as to the evil of killing versus the need to end slavery? And besides that, he could not help that he was only seventeen and had had to commit the sin of lying about his age in order to get in.