Newt Gingrich - Grant Comes East

10:00 am

‘General Sickles!" Dan looked to his left; a courier, the Maltese Cross of the Fifth Corps on his cap, was riding down the line at a gallop. The courier, a captain, reined in.

"From General Sykes, sir!" He handed over a folded piece of paper.

To the General Commanding

9:25 AM August 20

Sir,

I've observed a large formation of Rebel infantry upon my right, coming out of the woods to my west two miles away. They are formed for battle and advancing on the double towards my rear. Sir, I must stop my advance and turn to face them. I recommend that you come yourself to observe. Flags indicate they are South Carolina, perhaps of Beauregard's corps. Please come at once.

(Signed) Sykes Fifth Corps

Dan crumpled the paper in his hand.

Goddamn! Was he being flanked?

He looked forward. Still no sign of their infantry. Was this the bait of a trap, so many guns that he would of course stop, engage, try to flank, commit his reserves? And now another whole corps appeared on his flank and rear?

He felt a shiver of fear. My God, am I being flanked? Did Lee just trick me, knowing I would pursue what I thought was a retreating army?

"How long ago?" Dan shouted, looking at the captain.

"About a half hour, maybe forty minutes, sir."

"Did you see them?"

"Yes, sir. I was with General Sykes. Division front at least, thousands of them, coming on fast, cavalry skirmishers to their fore."

"Did no one look toward those woods?" Dan asked.

"No, sir, our cavalry patrols were pushed back throughout the night. And, sir, our orders said to follow down the road in pursuit."

"Goddamn you, I know what my orders said!" Dan shouted. "But your flank, man, your flank, didn't anyone look?"

The captain did not reply.

"Birney!"

"Here, sir!"

"Birney, I'm going up to the Fifth Corps. It might be Beauregard on our flank up there. Press the action here in the center. Keep pressing…"

His words were cut off.

The solid shot screamed in, brushing the flank of his horse and then striking his right leg just below the knee. In the split second it took to pass, the twelve-pound ball, moving at just under seven hundred feet a second, struck with frightful energy. It tore the bone of his lower leg out of the joint of his knee, severing ligaments, arteries, tearing cartilage, whipping the lower leg back at a ninety-degree angle, popping it out of the stirrup.

The angle of the shot carried the ball into the right rear quarter of his horse, shattering its hip, exploding out the back of the tortured animal in a spray of commingled blood, muscle, and bone both from horse and rider.

He gasped in surprise. There was no pain, just a terrible shock. All feeling, sound, sensation, thought were blanked out for a second. Instinct drove him to pull the reins of his mount, which was rearing back and then beginning to collapse onto its right side.

Though he did not see it, the courier from Sykes, who had actually felt the brush of the ball, was already leaning out, grabbing the horse's reins. Birney, on the other side, did the same, his shoulder getting dislocated as the horse pitched and fought

More men came up, struggling to keep the horse upright General Sickles, blood now draining from his face, numb, remained stock-still, frozen in part by fear, in part by the realization that his body would not react that he could not control the struggling animal beneath him.

Hands reached up, grabbing him on the left side.

"Get him down, gently, get him down!"

He started to collapse, sagging. He thought he should pull his right foot from the stirrup. He actually thought he had done so. Somehow they were dragging him up over the saddle, then lowering him to the ground.

He caught a glimpse of the courier, still holding the reins of his horse with one hand, pistol in the other. The man cocked his pistol. He wanted to shout a protest It was a good horse, a damn good horse, a gift from the governor.

The man pushed the pistol against the ear of the dying animal and fired, the poor thing collapsing in a heap.

He looked around. Men were kneeling by his side, Birney, arm hanging limp, struggling to dismount; a private was gazing down at him, wide-eyed, frightened.

The fear came into him, and like all wounded men he tried to sit up. He still wasn't sure where he was hit.

Please, God, not my stomach, not that. I'll lose an arm, a leg, but not in my gut. Seen too many die. He tried to tear at his jacket, to open it up, but hands were restraining him.

"Let me up!" he gasped, and they released him.

His body was still numb; he couldn't tell where he was hit, how bad.

He sat up and looked down at his body.

It was the leg and when he saw it was when the pain hit.

Strange how that worked, he thought His right leg was dangling off at an angle, shreds of muscle and ligaments all that was holding it to his body. A pool of blood was spreading out from the torn stump.

He took a deep breath.

'Tourniquet!"

Already a doctor from his headquarters staff was up by his side, leather bag opened, hands trembling. "Get a tourniquet on that, damn you," he gasped. "I am, sir."

The man wrapped the strap around his leg above the knee and started to turn the screw that would tighten it He felt the strap bite in, dig deeper; he gasped. Damn it. It hurt almost as much as the wound. Still deeper. His fingers dug into the ground, he gritted his teeth, eyes focused on his life blood still pouring out. The pulsing stream lowered, dribbled, became a slow, oozing flow.

He looked over at the doctor.

"Sir, I've stopped it for the moment, but I've got to get you back, tie off the arteries." "And my leg?"

The doctor looked down at the torn remnant and then back at Dan, shaking his head.

'Take it off now, damn it. There doesn't seem to be much left to it anyhow."

"Would you want me to give you ether first, sir?"

Dan looked up at the ever-growing crowd gathered around him, hearing distant shouts that "the general" was down.

No, he was Gen. Dan Sickles, commander of the Army of the Potomac. As he looked at his men, he knew that for them, there was still one more duty to perform this day, whether this day would be one of victory or defeat. He would do it with the style he had always shown.

"Anyone got a good cigar?" he gasped.

The private who was closest to him fished into his breast pocket and with a trembling hand drew out a thick Havana. A shot screamed in, bursting overhead. All ducked for a second, but no one was hit. The private pulled out a match. Dan bit off the end of the cigar, spat out the stub, and nodded. The private struck the match and Dan puffed the cigar to life. "Who are you, Private?"

"Paul Hawkinson, sir. Seventy-third New York, been with you since the Peninsula, sir."

"Well, Private. You're Sergeant Hawkinson now, and when this is over, come and see me, and a box of good Cubans is yours."

Hawkinson grinned and reached out, patting Dan on the shoulder.

"That's the spirit, sir. The old Third is with you this day." Dan nodded and looked back at the surgeon. "Cut away and be quick about it." "The ether?"

"I heard that stuff explodes around a lit cigar. Now cut away, damn you!"

Dan made it a point of not lying back, of not looking away. The surgery was over in seconds, a few quick slashes with a scalpel, a few strokes of the saw to sever a bundle of ligaments. Strangely, he didn't feel a thing. The men around him watched it, gazes shifting from the cutting to Dan's face and back again.

"Hawkinson, find a stretcher and be quick about it!"

"My ambulance!" the doctor shouted, and left with Hawkinson.

Dan sat quiet, smoking the cigar, holding his stump up in the air, bracing it with his hands.