Excerpt



They headed into battle near a stream called Bull Run. They scaled a slope and saw the stream ahead and a clearing beyond. To his right, Captain J.B. Carver saw puffs of white smoke through the trees, then heard the dull, harrowing sound of the cannons roar. The fight was already under way.

They had come to join the first major battle of the war of Southern rebellion against the Union. Carver rode alongside Colonel Everett West, at the head of Wests volunteer infantry regiment from Michigan. The regiment was filled with farm boys that were eager to defend their country but had no combat experience. To their misfortune, their leader was no different.

It was a sweltering summer day; the thick Virginia dust hung in the windless air and choked the marching soldiers. Carver noticed the ragged formation of the march; men fell out to adjust their knapsacks, to relieve themselves, to fill canteens from a nearby creek. In the distance the regimental band played an upbeat tune with rapid drum rolls. West looked upon his Michigan men with the smile of an approving father. An amiable dolt, Carver thought. A volunteer commander in a volunteer army, he has no idea what lies ahead.

Close ranks! the colonel shouted as he stood in his stirrups and unsheathed his sword. No falling out, no faltering! Today we make history!

Soon after, the word came that Wests men were to form behind the lines in reserve and await further orders. They halted along the Warrenton Turnpike, north of a meandering creek called Youngs Branch. Through clumps of trees they could see the battlefield beyond. It was early afternoon, and fighting was getting fierce to their right, near a series of farmhouses below the creek.

Carver watched a tide of men in Union blue sweep down into the fray to the right. The line moved in a serpentine twist around wooded clumps and through winding streams. Much further beyond, the dim gray and brown troops of the rebellion moved to meet them. The enemy was barely visible, just a shadow in the haze of musket fire and artillery smoke.

Having seen war up close before, Carver was rather relieved to be sitting in reserve. Watching the action from a safe distance, a grim thought came to him. If the fights sharp enough, theyll use us sure, he said. The fires picking up down there, and who knows how long the Northern boys can stand up to this heat.

The rebel artillery shells fell closer and closer. To the right beyond the creek, the earth exploded and spewed forth dirt and rocks and pieces of humanity. When fragments from a random shell sliced through a marching column, the troops scattered into the safety of the woods without waiting for orders. With no adequate training, instincts ruled the day.

From his safe vantage point, Carver grew pale with dread as he watched the tide of the battle slowly turn. The Northern aggressors were now falling back, and as they did so, they moved to their left. Toward the Warrenton Turnpike, where Carver watched with the reserves.

Colonel West also noticed the gradual shift, and he ordered his company commanders to assemble the men. Our boys are giving it all they have, said the colonel. He removed his obnoxious feathered hat and wiped his hairy brow. The rebs cant have much more left in them.

Carver sneered at the colonel and said bitterly, Colonel, may I remind you that we are the invading force in this engagement? And being as such, the Confederates wont allow us to overrun them and take Richmond without a fight straight from hell.

Relax, Captain. Carver reddened over Wests pacifying tone. The colonel offered his canteen. Carver turned away, then cursed his damn fool pride. The day was sweltering and he could have used a drink of water.

As the battle ahead intensified, it was becoming clear that the far right of the Union line was on the verge of collapse. Men were deserting their positions at a rapid rate, either due to injury, fatigue, or loss of nerve, and the Confederates began surging forward in pursuit. Their advance was bringing them straight toward the Warrenton Turnpike, occupied by Everett Wests Michigan boys.

Damned if they arent coming this way, West said, slapping Carvers faded coat. Both men squinted as they looked across Youngs Branch.

Beyond the stream, Confederate soldiers advanced among the farmhouses on the rolling hills. Still closer, columns of fresh soldiers in blue suddenly emerged from the woods to meet the enemy beyond. Looks like the Union boys are coming to the rescue down there, said West.

Carver pulled the reins on his balking horse as he watched the blue formation beyond the stream. He frowned. Something was wrong. Those arent our boys.

Damn your eyes, man! West shouted, slapping more dust off Carvers coat. Those men are clad in blue and theyre unfurling our national colors in that clearing right over there.

The day was windless, and the flags hung limp against their staffs. From Carvers position they were no more than a hodgepodge of blues, reds, and whites. In the burning summer day, a chill ran through Carver. A chill he hadnt felt since the siege of Vera Cruz. In an instant, all those years between wars vanished. He said in a trembling voice, Colonel, order your men to fire on those troops.

As West blustered about the Articles of War, Carver watched the men in blue about-face and join the advancing Confederates in crossing Youngs Branch. He pointed them out to the colonel, who refused to look. They were Southern militia who were hurried into battle with the only uniforms they could find, which just happened to be Union blue. Still blustering, West turned toward them just as the first wave of musket fire cut into his green Michigan boys.