Second Corps in Devil's Den

[william1993]

The equipment clanged, and for the third time during the climb, Captain Henry Wallace, of Waterbury, Connecticut, hissed into the gathering gloom for the men to 'knock off that damn clattering!'

It wouldn't work, though. The 14th Connecticut, as well as the rest of Second Brigade, Third Division, Second Corps, had been marching nonstop through the night. The whole corps had been falling back to the Pipe Creek, in order of line Third, First, and Second Divisionsm when a courier had come up, the great blue legions had turned around, and now they were marching up this hill in the dark with the rest of Third Division following them and not knowing what was up there.

Captain Wallace was hungry. The last thing he had ate was when Otis Foote, fat and round, had found a beehive deep in a stand of trees when the regiment had last stopped for water. There was some honeycombs and cornbread. The whole company had been thankful to Otis for this, for in addition to being a hell of a marksman and a fine soldier, he was also a master forager. Company F's great cookpots had been filled with many a good morsel due to Corporal Foote's scrounging. Now even that didn't help. There was great urgency, the men marching fast and long, not stopping to eat or to drink, now they were put to climbing this great mass of a hill.

It was more like a rock mountain, Wallace thought. Great rocks, some the size of houses, sat all over this hill. Big ones, small ones, medium ones. They were always underfoot and the equipment would always be getting tangled in the trees. As excellent a defensive position as the captain had seen in his 2 years of warfare. But it would be hell to attack. I hope nothing is up there, he thought uneasily.

There wasn't. The regiment deployed into skirmish lines, then climbed up through the gloom and rocks and there was nothing there. Then the regiment, as well as the rest of the brigade, deployed in the rocky promontory. Tom Smyth's brigade followed, as well as a battery of six guns, posted all the way down the hill. A regiment of Smyth's men were sent down in support, while Captain Wallace's company was detached and sent far out into the trees.

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As the men walked, they could see the whole corps' deployment. The other brigade of their division, Willard's 1500 men, were across the stream behind a long fenceline. Those were the most green troops in the corps, being captured at Harper's Ferry last September. They had seen only a little action, if any. The First Division, Caldwell's men, composed of 4 small brigades of primarily New York and Pennsylvania men, were strung out in a long line, interspersed with artillery. The division had stone walls and fences to use for protection. John Gibbon's men were in reserve, across the stream, except for Norman Hall's 900 men, who were used in support of an artillery battery at the top of the rockpile where Third Division was. Wallace could see the flags, adn by now, being well versed in Corps, Brigade, and Division symbols, could tell who was where. But right now, his main concern was to get out there, report if the Rebs showed up, and find something to eat before his stomach began to chew on his spine.

His 35 men were spread out, in pairs, about midway through the forest. The men blundered through for about 15 minutes before Wallace called a halt. He stopped, gratefully, and took his sword off and leaned it against a tree. He was hungry. Corporal Foote didn't even have any thing either. Wallace put out his pickets and rummaged in his haversack. It was almost Independence Day. Right now, he would probably be leaving the post office, and maybe taking that Olivia Henderson out to that little Italian place on 19th Street, right across the yard from what everyone knew as the cleanest whorehouse in town. All the spicy sausages, the round breads dipped in the olive oil. He remembered the time he spent $27.39 on an entire night of eating. That girl could eat, she sure did love her food, Wallace thought. He made up his mind, then and there, if he got through this battle, he would leave the army and go back to medical school. Maybe he would even buy Olivia Henderson her own Italian restaurant. She might even marry him. She had hinted at it, but he hadn't wanted to have anything on his mind when these people were out here trying to kill him. But now.....who knows what could happen.


The Captain was rudely yanked back to hsi reality by one of his soldiers, Private Greene, of New Haven, who was shaking him urgently, and whispering in his ear, "Sir, sir, it's the Rebs, sir, over there!" Good god damn, thought Wallace, those sons of bitches almost walked right over us! They wore patched Butternut and dark Union blue and one of them was shirtless. They had crossed the stream and were almost right on top of the Union skirmishers even before someone could react.

Wallace could remember the small skirmish almost in detail later. It had all happened, so fast though. A reb had come up, thinking he had run into other rebs, but to notice the Union blue, but it was too late for a warning as Private Hibbert had run his bayoneted Enfield through the man's head. Wallace was up, and he could hear the screaming of his men as they fell on the unprepared Rebs with bayonets and rifle butts. His sword was in his hand, and then it was in a Reb, and blood soaked the blade and the ground as the human flesh folded, thrashed, and died. He had no recollection of doing it but his pistol was out, and firing, and one Reb was shot through the chest and flopped back like a puppet on a stick who just had the stick cut, and then he was filled with the battle lust, and assaulted the other Reb most expeditiously, battering his musket aside, and releasing his pistol to take hold of him and drag him onto the blade, and he left the sword in the body and picked up the rifle and screamed, like a dying horse in 105 degree weather, and went after that Reb with that rifle, rammed the bayonet into him, and it was stuck, and he pulled the trigger, and the rifle exploded, and the body went one way in a great splash of red and the rifle went the other, and lo, there was that Reb there and he screamed like a wild thing, attacked him, snatched his small body and hoisted him into the air, and then Otis Foote was yelling in his ear to "put the Damn Reb down, it ain't no use in killin' him now." His mind, and then the air, cleared, and he saw his men in faded blue standing around in a big group, dead Rebs on the ground, and then he realized there was a person in his hands, and he set the man down slowly, and watch the man back away from him with a look of pure terror on his face. All of a sudden the Captain began to shake, and shake, and shake, until it seemed like the very earth was shaking beneath his feet and whirling around his head. Company F, it's mission done, went back the way they came.


Privates Francis Hammonds and James Adams, both of Dover, Delaware, had three things in common. First, they lived on the same street. Second, they practiced the same profession, which was carpentry. Third, they were both scared out of their wits seeing that great mass of Rebs coming at them.

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Even though they had been in battle and seen and killed Rebs before, they had never felt so alone. Part of the 2nd Delaware of the 850 man brigade commanded by Col. John Brooke, they were always comforted because they had the whole army in support of them. Both the men could look behind them and see nothing but river and a paltry strung out Second Division brigade. If the Rebs broke this line, there was no where to go. SO that meant that they had to whip the Rebs. And there were a hell of a lot of Rebs. Hence gut-clenching, knee shaking terror.

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The battery on the right flank of their brigade fired shells at the Rebs, and some of them fell, and the two men watched the men deploy, line upon line of them, and they were scared. They were rooted to their spot watching the plethora of colorful men who soon would be doing their best to kill them. As one, they both slid back their rifle hammers and put the percussion cap on the nipple. And looked at each other. They knew each other so well.

The stage was set for the slaughter.


P.S. I had to deploy the folks. I ain't began the slaughter yet.

[Marching Thru Georgia]

This is a great AAR. Keep going.

[Little Powell]

I agree, nice narrative/AAR. Keep up the great work.

[william1993]

I got to put the rest of this up tomorrow after I sleep. I had a hell of a battle and lots of corpses!

[35th Georgia]

Coming from one who has studied writing,you sir have a natural talent and should consider picking up the craft.

[william1993]

My primary ambition is to be a doctor. I could see writing as a second, side-thing, but never as a real one. It would bore me to do it for a lifetime.

[william1993]

Thamk you for the compliment.

[A.S. Johnston]

Great AAR! Wonderful writing; could see and hear the scene. :woohoo: Made me want to reach for my copy of celtx and start writing a screenplay for some animation video.