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  “Captain Hawkes is being reassigned to serve as naval liaison to Russia,” Graham said. “He will depart for St. Petersburg as soon as possible.”

  “And when will he get another ship?”

  Graham smiled tightly. “When hell freezes over.”

  Chapter Eight

  Otto the kraut peered over the man-made jumble of logs and squinted through the cloud of smoke at the distant enemy line. “Missed,” he said in his heavy German accent.

  Otto the Kraut wasn't his real name. That was Otto Krause: and he was an eighteen-year-old immigrant from Germany who had volunteered for the Union cause. He could speak fairly decent English, which was more than could be said of many of the other German immigrants who were joining the Union army in ever-growing numbers.

  “Fuck you,” said Private Billy Harwell.

  “And your horse, too,” Otto responded happily.

  Otto had attached himself to the young sharpshooter shortly after joining and had quickly picked up on American slang. He liked being Billy's spotter and loader, and he liked being away from the rest of the army while Billy honed his skills as a sniper. Best, he liked being away from Sergeant Grimes. Otto considered Grimes a tyrant, and it wasn't lost on him that Grimes was more than passingly interested in the slender and fair-haired Otto. Butt-fuck was a phrase he didn't need translated more than once.

  The rebel skirmish line was a few hundred yards away and most of the Confederate infantry were hunkered down on their knees and haunches to make themselves smaller targets. Some were lying down, but they couldn't stay that way since they needed to rise to reload their guns. The main rebel force, about a regiment strong, was at least a hundred yards beyond the skirmish line, and had also gone to ground.

  The rebels fired, and bullets thwacked against the long blind behind which Billy and Otto were hiding. Billy had built it and made the firing slits himself. It would take a very lucky hit to penetrate to where they huddled. Of course, if the rebs brought up artillery, then it was time to leave.

  “Where's my rifle?” Billy asked.

  Otto passed him the second weapon. Like the first, it was a Model 1853 breech-loading Sharps. In order to become the company's sharpshooter, Billy'd had to place ten out of ten shots in a ten-inch circle at two hundred yards. He'd done it easily. Most people thought the average rebel was a better shot than the average Union soldier, and they were probably right, since Southerners did so much hunting, but Billy'd grown up in Pennsylvania and done his share of shooting rabbits and squirrels for dinner. As a result, becoming a sharpshooter had been a piece of cake.

  Hell, he'd thought. If he could hit a small target at two hundred yards, he could surely hit a man at three hundred, or even four. He'd been right. He had a gift and Captain Melcher loved him for it and fuck Sergeant Grimes. A Sharps, or even a Springfield, could carry a lot farther than four hundred yards, but hitting something smaller than a barn required a talent that most men did not possess. Sniping had become a game and he was winning.

  Otto squinted over the log. “Officer rides up.”

  “I see him.”

  Billy squinted over the sights. The front of the barrel was stabilized on a piece of wood. It was a long shot, but he could do it. He watched as the officer dismounted, ran over to a skirmisher, and saluted. Well, now he had two officers to choose from. Billy decided to take the one who'd just ridden up first. He was likely an asshole from somebody's staff who never smelled gunpowder and even had clean underwear. He'd also bet a dollar that the rebel commander of the skirmish line was really pissed at being saluted and, therefore, identified as an officer.

  He took a deep breath, aimed, and softly squeezed the trigger as he exhaled. The gun recoiled against his shoulder and the world was filled with smoke. Otto poked his head over the logs.

  “Missed again,” he said.

  “God damn it!” Billy snarled. Two misses in a row? Unbelievable. If he kept on missing they'd have him back guarding bridges around Washington.

  Then the Confederate staff officer slumped to his knees and pitched over onto his face. “No,” Otto said jubilantly, “you got him. He just didn't know it yet.”

  Billy grinned. So the asshole was dead but didn't know it yet. Sometimes Otto was funny as hell.

  Bullets again thwacked against the logs and the angry rebels tried to take revenge. As before, they hit neither man. Otto and Billy were safe unless the rebs decided to move closer, which they wouldn't do unless they truly meant it, since that would bring on Union skirmishers to counter them. The game wasn't dangerous. They couldn't hit him.

  “Shitzen,” said Otto, mangling the German and English words. “A cannon comes.”

  Billy squinted through the hole. A team of six horses was hauling a small field piece into position behind the skirmishers. He watched as the horses were reined to a halt and the piece was unlimbered. The men in the rebel skirmish line raised a ragged cheer.

  “I think it's time to join the rest of the army,” Billy said.

  “Their skirmishers are advancing now,” said Otto. “Hey, so's that regiment behind them.”

  Bad and double-bad, thought Billy. After a week of falling back and making the Union claw for every hill and creek, the Confederates were attacking. Billy had only the vaguest idea where they were-somewhere in Virginia-and marching south at a snail's pace. Someone had said they'd crossed the Rappahannock somewhere between Culpeper and Fredericksburg. If that was the case. then they'd come about fifty miles in a week and a half.

  The weather had been wet, cold, and miserable, but Billy'd taken consolation in the fact that it was raining and miserable for the rebels, too.

  From what Billy could see of the war, which wasn't all that much, it wasn't necessarily the rebs who were causing the slow pace. A sort of routine had been established. The rebs would form a defensive line, some sniping and skirmishing would take place, then, after what seemed an eternity, a strong Union force would move against the rebs, who would pull back and the whole dance would start over again. Sometimes, though, the rebs would launch small counterattacks that disrupted the whole advance and made the troops nervous. Everyone knew that McClellan, the Young Napoleon, expected a major attempt by the rebs to drive them back to Washington and Billy wondered if this was it.

  He and Otto picked up their gear and began running. When they were about halfway to their own lines, they heard the rebel cannon open fire. Billy turned towards the sound and saw the shell strike the log pile that had been their hidey-hole only a few moments before, turning it into a pile of splinters and twigs.

  Otto whooped at their close escape and Billy grinned happily. This was the most exciting his life had ever been.

  Nathan Hunter could only watch as events transpired around him. At least he was warmer and drier than most of his companions, a fact that sometimes brought him angry stares and jealous glances as rain-soaked officers saw his expensive waterproof rain gear.

  True to his word, McClellan had allowed Nathan to accompany the army and be an unofficial observer at his headquarters. Nathan had been issued a pass that identified him as a civilian and a friend of McClellan's. The former was true enough but the latter was a question. The pass was for when he was stopped by sentries, which was often, and if he was captured by the Confederates. While he had no intention of being captured, he hoped it would work and he would not be mistaken for a spy since he was in civilian clothes.

  McClellan's grand strategy had been to swing south and slightly westward, thus hoping to avoid many of the massive fortifications the rebels had built protecting Richmond from a straightforward advance. For a while it had worked, although the army had advanced at a rate that was slow in the extreme and now seemed to be edging eastward. Nathan hoped it was by McClellan's design, and that the army was not just drifting that way as a result of its own momentum.

  McClellan had constantly reiterated that he would not be ambushed. He would move slowly and methodically against the rebels to prevent that. The rebels had co
operated by not defending anything too intently. The Confederates were satisfied with fighting for a while, and then falling back a mile or two to another position, confident that McClellan would take the devil's own time to decide whether or not the coast was clear to advance farther. Sometimes they'd made things interesting by launching small spoiling attacks.

  McClellan had split his forces. An independent corps under General Edwin Sumner functioned as a plug in the Shenandoah Valley. This was necessary since the mountain-bordered valley ran southwest from Washington, but northeast towards it. It was a geographic anomaly that pointed like a dagger towards the Union capital for a rebel army heading north, but uselessly west for a Union army heading south. Sumner's task was quite simple. He was to prevent Stonewall Jackson from either leaving the Shenandoah to reinforce Lee, or to advance north and threaten Washington. General Scott had voiced doubts to Nathan about General Edwin Sumner. He was the oldest general in the army at sixty-four, and Scott considered him dull. He was a supporter of McClellan and had commanded a corps at Bull Run, but had done so without any great distinction that Nathan could recall.

  The rest of the army was divided into four other corps under the direct command of McClellan. Three advanced on a broad front, while the fourth was their reserve. The command structure was significantly different from what McDowell had led at Bull Run.

  The right flank, closest to Culpeper, belonged to General FitzJohn Porter. General Porter was also a friend and supporter of McClellan. Scott held a fairly good opinion of him as a soldier, although he thought he was a sycophant of McClellan's.

  The center corps was commanded by acting Major General Joe Hooker. It was a surprising choice. Hooker was an experienced general and a fighter, but far from the next in line for corps command.

  General S. P. Heintzelman commanded the Union left. Unquestionably brave as an individual, he seemed overwhelmed by his command. Scott was not alone in wondering if he was fit to lead such a large force in the field.

  Of course, Nathan thought ruefully, who among them had any experience in handling large bodies of men in battle? Only a few years ago, the entire army was but a fraction of the force of seventy thousand slowly descending on Lee and Richmond. Back then, many of the current leaders had been junior officers, or even civilians.

  The reserve was commanded by Ambrose Burnside, another close friend of McClellan's and also another unknown quantity. He had shown well in smaller unit commands but had never commanded anywhere near this many men. What puzzled Nathan was that the reserve was by far the largest of the four corps. In Nathan's opinion, it was too large a force to keep from the center of combat.

  Nathan did not begrudge McClellan's giving commands to men who were his friends and followers, but he did wonder about some of their abilities. Were they good enough to take on the rebel infantry?

  There were no doubts regarding the cavalry or the artillery. The Confederate cavalry, under Jeb Stuart, was vastly superior. It was joked that the rebels were born to the saddle, while the Union cavalrymen kept falling out of theirs. It didn't help that crooked contractors were supplying the Union cavalry with horses that were more dead than alive, and gear that kept falling apart.

  On the positive side, the Union had a clear superiority in artillery. Nathan was of the opinion that he'd rather have a lot of cannon than a strong cavalry force. Although colorful, the cavalry were basically scouts and would not decide a major battle. They had not done so since the advent of the gun. and were not likely to now. A cavalry charge against modern infantry would be cut to shreds.

  The slow advance of the Union army enabled the laying of telegraph lines that ran from Washington to McClellan's headquarters. Nathan considered that a mixed blessing. Either Stanton or Lincoln was always asking for information, which McClellan rarely bothered to provide. The slow advance had also meant that great quantities of supplies had accumulated a couple of miles behind the main Union force. Some of Burnside's reserves had been detailed to protect the massive depots from rebel cavalry raids. New and repaired rail lines further speeded communication and the shipment of supplies. Nathan thought it ironic that the only thing not moving fast was the Union army.

  And then there was the question of McClellan himself. Some men who are smallish in stature seem to be larger than they actually are because of their personality and force of will. To Nathan it seemed that McClellan showed little of either. And instead of his gaining confidence as he advanced towards Richmond, he got more nervous and withdrawn. Each mile gained and each spoiling attack beaten off seemed to drain emotional strength from him. The dapper and confident man Nathan had dined with a few weeks earlier had been replaced by a pale and nervous caricature.

  His behavior reminded Nathan of a small boy testing the waters of a pond to see how cold it was. The boy's toe was in the water, but his body leaned back so he could withdraw in an instant. With every step south, McClellan was growing more and more fearful of a major Confederate attack by those forces he felt were so much larger than his.

  Nathan signalled to Lieutenant Winton, the young officer who had been detailed to watch over him, that he was going forward. Winton, who was bored serving as a nanny, happily got their horses. Messengers had brought word of possible Confederate activity, and Nathan wanted to see it. They were a couple of miles behind the forward positions, and the hiily country masked both sight and sound.

  They rode only a few minutes before they were able to hear the rattle of rifle fire and, moments later, they could see the Confederate advance.

  Even though it was winter, this was Virginia, which meant that many trees and shrubs still retained their foliage. As a result, the picture he saw was incomplete and Nathan wished they'd had observation balloons to help guide them. They were under order but not yet delivered to the Army of the Potomac.

  Nathan rode from place to place, watching and listening to the battle. At one point, he paused several hundred yards behind a Union force that was dueling with an equivalent-sized Confederate force. Promises to Rebecca notwithstanding, it was prudence not cowardice that kept him as far from the battle as he was. He was not a combatant and had no need to expose himself. Even so, an occasional spent bullet splatted into the soft ground around him. Nathan pulled a telescope from his saddlebag and scanned the field.

  Smoke from a thousand rifles clouded the field in a mist of death. Volleys crashed and then disintegrated into a steady ripple of solitary fire. The sight took his breath away. The two masses of men, one blue and the other gray, were scarcely a hundred yards from each other and pouring death onto each other. Men lay still where they had been hit, or they thrashed about, or they attempted to crawl away trailing shattered limbs. Blood puddled the ground where they passed.

  Through it all could be heard the primal howl of men consumed with killing each other. It was a horror that took his breath away. “I never dreamed,” said Winton. He was about twenty and this was the first time he'd seen men die.

  The Confederates brought up artillery, two small field guns. Moments later, a Union battery of three guns appeared and unlimbered. At first the two batteries dueled with each other, but the Union gunners were faster, their guns were better, and they held a numeric advantage over their enemy. In short order, the rebel cannon were silenced. One was disabled and the second withdrew. With that the Union guns fired into the thick ranks of rebel infantry. Where shells struck, men were blown away, sometimes in pieces. Gaps appearing in the rebel line were filled by men from the rear ranks. The front was solid but the rear was thinning out.

  Still, the rebel line held, even tried to advance. “How can they do it?” Nathan said in wonderment. Beside him, Winton vomited onto the grass. Finally, the rebels could take no more from their tormentors. Slowly, agonizingly, they pulled back. When they had reached a point, the Union line ceased firing. Men slumped in exhaustion and relief. Maybe some were praying at the miracle that saw them alive.

  “We've won,” Winton said as he wiped spittle from his chin. />
  “At least we've stopped them,” Nathan said. Then he wondered, had the Confederates been stopped elsewhere or just here?

  One thing, though, impressed him. What he had seen of the well-equipped army of George Brinton McClellan had done well. They had not faltered under intense fire. They had not retreated. Instead, they had rejected an attack by Lee^: s best. It was a damned good sign.

  Billy Harwell fired into the approaching horde as quickly as he could load his rifle. There was no reason for more than cursory aiming. The rebels were dead ahead and coming in force. Any bullet headed towards that compact mass of humanity was bound to hit something.

  So why weren't they all dead? Because, he thought ruefully, so many of his comrades were scared shitless and were shooting at the sun and the clouds. That is, if they got over their fright and shot at anything at all. Of course, the rebels were shooting high, too, otherwise everyone would be dead. The air was filled with the incessant buzz of the leaden bees that flew overhead. Billy thought grimly that people in the rear who thought themselves safe were in as much danger as he was.

  The rebels paused. Then some Southern fool started howling and the rest of them took it up. It sent chills up Billy's spine. He thought it sounded like someone had set hundreds of cats on fire at the same time.

  “They're coming,” Captain Melcher said.

  “No shit,” Billy muttered, and some of those around him laughed nervously. Melcher didn't hear.

  “Where's fucking Grimes?” asked Billy.

  “Wounded,” came the reply.

  “Hope it wasn't in the head,” Billy muttered. “Nothing there to hurt in that gap-toothed fool's skull.”