Michael Spradlin - Blood Riders

In less than thirty minutes they reached their objective and Hollister deployed the men along the fencerow. He gave them the order to advance carbines and marveled at how six hundred men drew their rifles from their saddle scabbards almost in unison. What a fine unit. McAndrews returned on his palomino, his face showing some perspiration. He was always a little nervous before the fighting started, but once the first shot sounded, there was not a steadier man.

“Mac, is Ferguson on his way?” Hollister said to the lieutenant. “I think Custer is up to something and I got a feeling a couple thousand rebels are coming through that orchard before long.”

“Yes, sir, he said to tell you he’ll meet you in the middle. I think he liked your idea,” McAndrews said, drawing his carbine from its holster on his saddle. Together, they waited as their horses pawed at the ground and grazed on the grass.

Shortly after sunrise Hollister heard the sounds of the battle start. It was always a puzzle to Jonas how the fighting commenced with the first quiet pops of the long rifles, usually the Enfields the Rebs used. Then the cannon started a few seconds later and it became a cacophony of noise, indistinguishable from either side. Over the sound came the shouts of thousands of men, the Confederates raising their rebel yell while the Union soldiers shouted back. There was never a break in the shouting, as it quickly became a constant roar: the screams as the shooting intensified, the wails of the men as they fell wounded, and the whining cries of dying horses joined in the chorus.

Hollister waited, fidgeting in the saddle. He could not see into the town, as the orchard was densely overgrown. He heard the sound of cavalry approaching from the west. He wondered if it was Custer, and then for a moment worried the Rebs had somehow gathered themselves and sent reinforcements, but it couldn’t be. Sheridan and his 15,000 troops were north.

The first Reb came out of the orchard at a dead run and almost collided with Hollister’s horse. He was startled to find a line of Union soldiers there, but collapsed when a bullet tore through his chest, skidding to a stop a few feet in front of Jonas.

“Hold…” Jonas started to say, but his words trailed off when a bullet whizzed past his left ear. Everything turned to chaos as his men opened fire on an orchard that had come alive with the enemy. He drew his Colt, but saw immediately that his men would be overrun. A wave of gray uniformed soldiers flooded through the trees and the fencerow behind him blocked any hopes to maneuver away.

He had no idea how many times his revolver had clicked on an empty chamber before he realized it was empty.

“Sir, there’s a damn lot of rebels!” Mac shouted to him. And he was right. There were too many. He was going to get his men killed if he didn’t do something quickly.

“Mac, sound the order, about face, retreat! Get the men through that fencerow and get them out of here, go west and regroup on the bridge road. Hurry!” He gave the order to his lieutenant. His pistol was empty and he drew his carbine, as bullets flew everywhere. The wall of fleeing Rebs had pushed his troopers up against the fencerow and before they could move, the ground had become a teeming mass of men and horses, and still more Confederates poured out of the orchard.

“Retreat!” Hollister shouted. “Bugler! Sound retreat.” Nothing happened because his bugler had been killed. Hollister saw three Confederate soldiers riding horses back toward the town, having pulled his troopers from them. It had all turned to shit. God damn Custer.

Hollister spurred his horse, pushing the nervous animal through the mass of men. Retreating to the south was out. “Forward! Move forward!” he shouted. He found some clear space and rode back and forth, exhorting his men. He wanted them to follow him into the orchard to fight their way through the retreating rebels. A few of his men saw him in the confusion and understood his order. But the chaos seemed insurmountable and he saw two more of his men go down.

“Mac! Turn the men! Forward into the orchard! Hurry!” He shouted at Mac and the lieutenant rose in his saddle and shouted, “Forward through the orchard! Return fire! Forw-”

His words died on his lips as a minie ball entered just below his left eye. Mac catapulted off his horse, his body falling to the ground, disappearing among the gray uniforms.

“MAC!” Hollister shouted “NO!” He was about to spur his horse toward the fallen lieutenant, but a hand reached out and grabbed the halter of his mount.

“Sir! No, sir, we’ve got to get into that orchard sir, come on now. The lieutenant is dead, sir, you need to rally the men.” It was a grizzled sergeant named Dawson, from B Company, who had stopped him.

The next hour was lost in Hollister’s mind. He vaguely remembered following Dawson into the orchard. His officers had finally understood what he was asking and had rallied the men through the trees until they reached the south end of the village and the advancing Union line. Custer had routed the Confederates out of the town, just as he predicted, but the general’s actions had driven the Rebs right into Hollister’s regiment, where his men had been chewed up like beef in a meat grinder.

When the buzz of the fight subsided, Hollister returned to the fencerow. It was littered with dead and dying rebels and the medical corpsman had gathered the bodies of his men who had fallen. Thirty-seven bodies were lined in the shade covered by blankets. Hollister sat on his horse staring at the corpses, feeling the anger grow; a small nugget of fire in the center of his chest. No one approached him, asked him for orders, or bothered him. The look on his face was a warning for everyone to stay away. After a while he turned his horse and rode hard for the Union camp.

A half hour later he arrived at General Sheridan’s camp. He could hear the sound of celebration coming from the large campaign tent. He handed the reins to a young private guarding the horses and entered the tent. The noise dimmed as the buzzing in his ears became louder. The edges of his vision turned red, and small arcs of light traveled across his eyes like a summer thunderstorm.

Custer sat at the end of a table, his hat off, revealing his long blond hair tangled with the yellow silk scarf about his neck. He was leaning back in his chair with his legs crossed while vanity oozed from his pores.

He heard the clump of Hollister’s boots behind him, and turned just in time to see the first blow coming. It staggered him and he slumped to the ground, landing awkwardly on his ass. Hollister kicked the chair out of the way and leapt on the prone man.

“You arrogant son of a bitch,” Jonas shouted, and landed another punch on the point of Custer’s chin. His arm was cocked for another swing, but it never landed because someone grabbed him, and he felt himself being lifted to his feet. Custer lay on the ground stunned, blood seeping from his mouth and a cut on his chin.

“Fucking bastard… you no-good prick!” Hollister shouted.

“Colonel Hollister!” Jonas came out of his rage at the sound of General Sheridan’s voice. He didn’t recognize the officers holding him by the arms but the general stood between him and Custer, who still lay on the ground.

“Jesus Christ, Hollister,” the general said. “Are you going to take a swing at me, Colonel?” Jonas’s breath came in ragged gasps but he shook his head.

“Then let him go,” the general said. “Good God, man. What the hell have you done?” Sheridan examined the prone body of Custer on the floor of his tent. He nudged him with the toe of his boot. Sheridan was a short man, no taller than five and a half feet, hence his nickname “Little Phil.” He was as cocky as a rooster and his voice had always sounded how Hollister thought God’s would sound, deep and resonant with just the slightest trace of an Irish brogue. “Sergeant! Get the general to the surgeon. Move it!”