"Anyone know where we are?"
"Virginia." There followed a wave of gruff laughter at the old joke.
The drummer boy was not to be so easily put off, however. "Yeah, but where? I thought we was headed for Richmond. Didn't that sign back there say something about Seven Pines? How far's that from Richmond?"
Dollinger sighed and leaned on his Springfield. Same questions, same answers, just different names. The siege at Yorktown hadn't been as bad as he'd feared, the 100th NY spending most of their time just sitting about in trench works and avoiding shells. After the Confederates had fled in the night, they had a rather easy time of it advancing further and further into Virginia. Williamsburg had been a bit tougher, but not by much. The rebels just kept up a fighting retreat without doing all that much fighting. While the Navy had been kind enough to float the Union troops up the wider portions of the York River, the heavy marching from West Point and down towards Richmond had left the men tired and worn. Dollinger himself was used to such a pace and distance, his youth having been a hoagie upon the Erie Canal. The march from West Point to here was nothing compared to the tow paths between Buffalo and Troy. Just less complaining.
Now dug into their earthworks, the 100th waited. Dollinger wasn't quite sure why they had dug into place instead of advancing onwards, but their own scouts reported that the opposing army was larger if somewhat uncoordinated. Everything was wet and soaked from the rains the day before, with the morning brining harsh winds that did little to bring any spring warmth to the cold and damp troops. With no word on what else to do, the men had decided to fall back on the army standard order: wait. Dollinger lit his pipe carefully and leaned back against the trench. It wasn't much of a life in the army, but it sure beat starving half the year while waiting for the Canal to thaw out! Still, he found he missed those cold months of freedom. April to November, his soul and body belonged to piloting barges from one side of New York to the other, from the Empire City to the Queen City, and getting drunk in between. When the war began and the reports of the devastation at BullRun came in, it didn't take long before units started to form up in preparation for the Union counteract the next year. Enlisting in Buffalo, Dollinger looked forward to three years of meals cooked by someone other than the hired whores who worked the barges as "cooks."
"What's that?" someone cried.
Dollinger raised his head. He could hear something on the wind from the west. Fife and drum? How close were they to the Confederate army? Had the rebels finally decided to make a stand at Richmond instead of continually retreating? The sergeants' cries of "Form up! Form up!" soon told him all he needed to know. The big man took a breath to steady his nerves, tapping out his freshly lit pipe upon the heel of his brogans before settling into place along the fire line. At a good six foot and some, Dollinger towered over the other men in his unit. Broad shoulders push aside other men for space in the earthworks as all checked percussion caps and leveled muskets towards the sound. It wasn't even much past noon yet, he thought. He could feel the tension in the air change as the unit filled in, the sound of the enemy's bandsmen getting louder down the road that led to their capital; the banter of boredom had become the silence of fear.
The rest was a blur. Rifles volleys thundering on both sides, men falling all about, black powder smoke choking and blinding the men of the 100th until they could no longer cry or see! Dollinger stood his ground as long as he dared, barely aware that a minie ball had blown the kepi off of his head to let his sandy hair blow in the winds. Fire, reload, aim, fire... it was a pattern drilled into him and all the men until they could do it without thinking. It wasn't helping. How much time had passed since the Rebel's first attack was anyone's guess at that point, just that it seemed a continuous hell that was rained down upon them. When the Rebel charge came, men started to bolt. Dollinger wondered if the sergeant had run as well, only to look and see the mustachioed veteran fall with ripe red spurt from chest and mouth. Grimly, shaking his head, the canaller kept his fire upon the advancing soldiers. The union line was falling, buckling under the weight of a force near twice its size. Then a soul wrenching yell came from the attackers and they were upon the blue coated troops with bayonets and fists.
"Rally!" Dollinger shouted as he smashed a white faced teenager in the face with the butt of his rifle. "Rally! Stand by Dollinger!" he roared. If they could hold the line, if they could repel the enemy then the reserves behind them could be brought up in time to save the day.
But it was far too late. Too many men of the 100th NY had already fallen or run, and the regiment was fully in rout. The second line of defense was behind at Seven Pines, and with their backs to the enemy's muzzles, they would get gunned down before they were halfway there. The big man would not give up though. Not out of bravery or courage, but out of the fierce refusal to die with his back to the enemy; a brawler who fought at every lock along Clinton's Folly, he simply could not back down from a fight. Four or five Rebel soldiers were laid out on the ground around him as others surged past to give chase to his fleeing fellows, and even as the stout wooden stock of his Springfield finally shattered against the skull of another, someone clubbed him from behind. The world reeled about him as his senses were disrupted. Staggering with the shock of it, he fell to the side and away from the rushing troops. Dollinger's eyes roved about as if on their own, trying to find something to focus on besides blood and earth.
"Virginia." There followed a wave of gruff laughter at the old joke.
The drummer boy was not to be so easily put off, however. "Yeah, but where? I thought we was headed for Richmond. Didn't that sign back there say something about Seven Pines? How far's that from Richmond?"
Dollinger sighed and leaned on his Springfield. Same questions, same answers, just different names. The siege at Yorktown hadn't been as bad as he'd feared, the 100th NY spending most of their time just sitting about in trench works and avoiding shells. After the Confederates had fled in the night, they had a rather easy time of it advancing further and further into Virginia. Williamsburg had been a bit tougher, but not by much. The rebels just kept up a fighting retreat without doing all that much fighting. While the Navy had been kind enough to float the Union troops up the wider portions of the York River, the heavy marching from West Point and down towards Richmond had left the men tired and worn. Dollinger himself was used to such a pace and distance, his youth having been a hoagie upon the Erie Canal. The march from West Point to here was nothing compared to the tow paths between Buffalo and Troy. Just less complaining.
Now dug into their earthworks, the 100th waited. Dollinger wasn't quite sure why they had dug into place instead of advancing onwards, but their own scouts reported that the opposing army was larger if somewhat uncoordinated. Everything was wet and soaked from the rains the day before, with the morning brining harsh winds that did little to bring any spring warmth to the cold and damp troops. With no word on what else to do, the men had decided to fall back on the army standard order: wait. Dollinger lit his pipe carefully and leaned back against the trench. It wasn't much of a life in the army, but it sure beat starving half the year while waiting for the Canal to thaw out! Still, he found he missed those cold months of freedom. April to November, his soul and body belonged to piloting barges from one side of New York to the other, from the Empire City to the Queen City, and getting drunk in between. When the war began and the reports of the devastation at BullRun came in, it didn't take long before units started to form up in preparation for the Union counteract the next year. Enlisting in Buffalo, Dollinger looked forward to three years of meals cooked by someone other than the hired whores who worked the barges as "cooks."
"What's that?" someone cried.
Dollinger raised his head. He could hear something on the wind from the west. Fife and drum? How close were they to the Confederate army? Had the rebels finally decided to make a stand at Richmond instead of continually retreating? The sergeants' cries of "Form up! Form up!" soon told him all he needed to know. The big man took a breath to steady his nerves, tapping out his freshly lit pipe upon the heel of his brogans before settling into place along the fire line. At a good six foot and some, Dollinger towered over the other men in his unit. Broad shoulders push aside other men for space in the earthworks as all checked percussion caps and leveled muskets towards the sound. It wasn't even much past noon yet, he thought. He could feel the tension in the air change as the unit filled in, the sound of the enemy's bandsmen getting louder down the road that led to their capital; the banter of boredom had become the silence of fear.
The rest was a blur. Rifles volleys thundering on both sides, men falling all about, black powder smoke choking and blinding the men of the 100th until they could no longer cry or see! Dollinger stood his ground as long as he dared, barely aware that a minie ball had blown the kepi off of his head to let his sandy hair blow in the winds. Fire, reload, aim, fire... it was a pattern drilled into him and all the men until they could do it without thinking. It wasn't helping. How much time had passed since the Rebel's first attack was anyone's guess at that point, just that it seemed a continuous hell that was rained down upon them. When the Rebel charge came, men started to bolt. Dollinger wondered if the sergeant had run as well, only to look and see the mustachioed veteran fall with ripe red spurt from chest and mouth. Grimly, shaking his head, the canaller kept his fire upon the advancing soldiers. The union line was falling, buckling under the weight of a force near twice its size. Then a soul wrenching yell came from the attackers and they were upon the blue coated troops with bayonets and fists.
"Rally!" Dollinger shouted as he smashed a white faced teenager in the face with the butt of his rifle. "Rally! Stand by Dollinger!" he roared. If they could hold the line, if they could repel the enemy then the reserves behind them could be brought up in time to save the day.
But it was far too late. Too many men of the 100th NY had already fallen or run, and the regiment was fully in rout. The second line of defense was behind at Seven Pines, and with their backs to the enemy's muzzles, they would get gunned down before they were halfway there. The big man would not give up though. Not out of bravery or courage, but out of the fierce refusal to die with his back to the enemy; a brawler who fought at every lock along Clinton's Folly, he simply could not back down from a fight. Four or five Rebel soldiers were laid out on the ground around him as others surged past to give chase to his fleeing fellows, and even as the stout wooden stock of his Springfield finally shattered against the skull of another, someone clubbed him from behind. The world reeled about him as his senses were disrupted. Staggering with the shock of it, he fell to the side and away from the rushing troops. Dollinger's eyes roved about as if on their own, trying to find something to focus on besides blood and earth.
