William R. Forstchen - Lost Regiment 01 - Rally Cry.pdf - William R. Forstchen - widez2

Rally Cry

William R. Forstchen

ROC

First Printing, May, 1990

Content

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Book I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Book II

Chapter 12

Page 1

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

About the Author

Lost Regiment Series

Dedication

For Kathy and Carl Livollen, who deserved their own book so longago.

For Christine Poole, with a special thanks for her help and wonderful friendship.

And finally a bit of a sentimental dedication as well—for all those boys from Maine, for after all most of

them were only boys, who gave their lives more than a century ago to preserve the Union, and to end the

scourge of slavery. May we never forget their dreams for this country, as we reach for thestars.

Acknowledgments

A special thanks to Mr. John Keane, great-grandnephew of Andrew Lawrence Keane, and president of

the 35th Maine Historical Society, who first shared with me the interesting story of that famed regiment's

history over a decade ago.Through his tireless help I was able to contact a number of descendants of

members of the regiment and examine a wide variety of documents related to its illustrious history, which

helped so much in the creation of this story.

For the interested traveler, a monument to the 35th is located in the small hamlet ofKeane ,Maine , a

short drive down coast fromFreeport,Maine . It's a simple affair, so typical ofMaine . A bronze plaque

bears the names of the six hundred and thirteen men who set voyage on that fateful trip, and above the

plaque the statue of a Union soldier looks out to sea.

Good luck finding it!

Book I

Chapter 1

Page 2

January2,1865

CityPoint,Virginia(major supply and shipment center supporting the Union Army besiegingPetersburg

andRichmond )

The thunder of artillery rumbled across the storm-lashed midnight sky. Turning in his saddle, Andrew

Lawrence Keane looked back, as if the distant flashes were a siren song, whispering for him to return

into the caldron of flame.

"Not our fight anymore, colonel."

"It feels strange to be leaving it, Hans," Andrew said softly, and even as he spoke he continued to look

back, watching as the silhouette ofPetersburg was revealed by the bursting shells.

"Strange to be leaving, is it? Damn glad, I am," Hans snapped. "We've been in the trenches before that

damn rebel city for the last six months. It'll be good to stretch our legs and see something else for a while,

even if it does mean we've got to take one of them damn boats to get there."

Pulling out a plug of tobacco, Hans bit off an end, and then offered a chew to his colonel.

Andrew smiled and waved his hand, declining the offer. For two years Hans had been offering him a

chew and for two years he'd always turned him down. Shifting his gaze away from the gunfire, Andrew

looked down at his sergeant major. The man's face was dark, like weathered canvas, and careworn and

thin, wreathed in a beard flecked with streaks of gray. The lines about his eyes were deeply engraved

from the years out on the prairie, watching across its shimmering heat and snow-covered vastness. The

scar on his cheek from the Comanche arrow was a souvenir of twenty-one years' service in the army. It

wasn't the only scar, and as the sergeant continued to walk by Andrew's side, a slight limp was

noticeable, a gift from a reb sniper beforeCold Harbor .

Looking down at his friend, Andrew remembered the first time the offer for a chew had been made, and

a smile lit his features, even though the memory still embarrassed him.

Antietamwas their first fight together. He had been a green and frightened lieutenant, and Sergeant Major

Hans Schuder was the only veteran with the newly recruited 35thMaine . With five thousand men of the

first corps, they had crossed the forty-acre cornfield, trampling down the ripened stalks on that

September morning in '62. Forever afterward one simply had to say "the Cornfield" and any veteran of

either theUnion or Confederate side knew what it meant. In crossing that field, they stepped through the

gate to hell.

The rebs had hit them from three sides. One moment all had been quiet; he could even remember the

cries of the startled birds above them as they left the field and crashed into the woods beyond. In a

moment the silence of that morning was washed away in fire and smoke, and the roaring scream of ten

thousand rebs smashed into them.

He had stood transfixed, terrified, his company captain screaming out commands to him. An instant later

the captain lay spread-eagled upon the ground, his unseeing eyes staring up at Andrew, a puddle of

blood and brains beneath him.

All he could think of was getting behind the nearest tree, so another such bullet would not find him as

well. Dammit, his terrified mind had screamed out, you're a professor of history! What in hell are you

doing here?

Page 3

And then that soft, gravelly voice had whispered to him.

"Son, would you care for a chew?"

Old Hans was standing beside him, offering a plug of tobacco. He barely came to Andrew's shoulder,

his five-and-a-half-foot frame contrasting to Andrew's slender, almost fragile six feet and several inches

of height. At that moment Andrew still remembered Hans as if he were a giant towering above him, cold

gray eyes staring into his.

"Lieutenant, the regiment's shot to hell and pulling back.I think you'd better help lead the boys out of

here." He spoke as if advising a lad momentarily confused by the rules of a strange new game.

And in that moment Andrew started on the path of becoming a soldier, for what else could he do, with

those eyes upon him.

That evening Colonel Estes had come to Andrew and promoted him to captain for displaying such

cool-headed courage on the field. The men of his company had patted him on the back, calling him a

stout fellow who knew how to lead. He knew that before the battle Estes had had his doubts, and openly

mumbled about having a bespectacled, bookish college teacher in his command. But that night Andrew

knew that at last he'd been accepted.

The curious thing about it, Andrew thought, was that he could not remember what he had done. All he

could recall was how, throughout the day, Hans had stood by him, just standing, watching, and

occasionally offering advice.

"Son, I saw you," Hans said to him that evening, "I saw you and knew you'd be a soldier, once you

learned how. You'll do well in this war, if you don't get kilt first."

That was the last time Hans had ever called him "son." From then on it was Captain Andrew Lawrence

Keane, and Hans spoke the words with pride, as if he had somehow molded them.

After Fredricksburg it was Major Keane, and Hans, who knew all the workings of the army, patiently

tutored him, with a thousand anecdotes and tales, on how to be an officer who could lead.

And then there wasGettysburg .

On the afternoon of the first day they stood under a hot July sun. The smell of crushed hay rose from

beneath their feet as they waited for the storm approaching from the west.

It was as if an ocean of butternut and gray were sweeping toward them, twenty thousand rebs pouring

down off Mc-Pherson's Ridge, a chorus of fifty cannons heralding their approach.

It was there that Andrew truly felt the strange, thrilling joy of it all. Red flash blossoms of death crashed

about them, while the long thin line of blue waited like a stone wall to break the approaching wave.

The reb gunners quickly found their range, and the regiment was bracketed by a dozen thunderclap

bursts. In that fraction of a moment Colonel Estes no longer existed and Andrew stood alone, in

command of the 35th.

The line wavered, for all the men had seen their beloved colonel fall.

Page 4

But this time there was no need for Hans to whisper to him. Unsheathing his sword, Andrew stepped

before the ranks and, turning, faced what was now his regiment.

"Hell's gonna freeze over before they take this hill," he roared, and his men shouted back their defiance

to the enemy.

The storm broke upon them and they held, trading volley for volley at fifty paces.

All through that hot afternoon of hell they stood, the heavy double line melting beneath the sun and flame

into a thin ragged knot of men who would not run. His heart had swelled to bursting and tears of pride

would blind him as he paced the volley line, shouting encouragement, stopping occasionally to pick up a

fallen musket and fire, while Hans strode beside him, never saying a word.

There was, however, that one numbing moment when he turned to Hans to somehow find consolation.

Going down to the left of the regiment, to check on whether the 80thNew Yorkwere still holding their

flank, he stopped for a moment with Company A.

His younger brother, Johnnie, had joined the regiment but the week before. He wanted to send the boy

to a safe job in the rear, but pride had prevented him from showing favorites.

That damnfoolish pride.

John, what was left of him, was lying as if asleep beneath the shade of an ancient maple tree.

Andrew gazed upon the fragile broken body, and then to Hans. But the old sergeant was silent,

grim-faced, as if telling him that now was not the time to mourn. Kneeling down, Andrew kissed his only

brother, and then rose blindly, to return to the fight.

In the end the division finally gave way, and within minutes the entire army was streaming back to the

safety of the hills on the other side ofGettysburg .

But his regiment did not run. Knowing someone would have to slow the reb advance in order to buy

time, Andrew understood his duty—if need be, to sacrifice his command.

Step by step they gave ground slowly, firing a volley, retreating a dozen paces, and firing again. The rebs

lapped over around the flanks, but could not press on till this final barrier was removed. But the 35th

refused to break.

Pulling back to the edge of town, they blocked the streets, and the time was bought. Two-thirds of his

men weregone, paying the price for a precious fifteen minutes that might decide who would finally win.

Raising his sword, Andrew started to shout the command to pull back to Cemetery Hill, and then the

blinding lash of fire swept over him. The last thing he could ever recall ofGettysburg was the falling away

into a great gentle dark-ness, which he thought was the coming of death.

As if from a great distance a voice called, and Andrew stirred from his reverie.

"Did you say something, sergeant?"

"Just asked if your wound troubled you, sir," Hans said, looking at him with concern.

Page 5

William R. Forstchen - Lost Regiment 01 - Rally Cry.pdf

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