Read Online The Battle of the Crater: A Novel by William R. Forstchen, Newt Gingrich, Albert S. Hanser - Free Book Online Page A
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again at Gettysburg, were nobly done and were as important as a victory itself. Keep an eye on these new men, perhaps you will find a moment that will immortalize them as well. I think that is a task you cannot turn down.”
James’s glance was actually one of anger.
“Mr. President, if it was anyone else in the world asking me this, I would tell them to go to hell.”
Lincoln forced a homey smile.
“But you won’t say that to your President and your friend.”
“You know I can’t refuse a request from my President,” and he finally smiled again. “And my friend.”
Lincoln slowly stood up and extended his hand.
“Thank you, James. Now back you go to Willard’s. I can try to order you not to drink, but I don’t want you to make a promise you will not keep. But do try for moderation.”
“After tomorrow, but tonight…” He shook his head. “Sorry, sir.”
Lincoln patted him on the shoulder again and guided him out the door. Nicolay looked up, holding a sheaf of papers, as James left the front office.
“New dispatches?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything pressing I need to do right now?”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
“Tomorrow, then,” and he closed the door to be alone.
He went back to the window. The last of the boats had turned the bend and were out of sight, five thousand more men for the front lines.
He thought of the song so popular only a year ago, but rarely heard anymore, “Battle Cry of Freedom,” and the refrain: “And we’ll fill our vacant ranks with a million freemen more…”
The nation was running out of men willing to fight. But then again, so was the South.
One victory, dear Lord, he thought, just one good clear victory. No mistakes by generals this time, no lost orders, and no bitter infighting. The men on those boats deserved their chance, and perhaps they would be the key to that victory, for they had a stake in this fight, if anyone did.
CHAPTER THREE
PETERSBURG, VIRGINIA
JUNE 25, 1864
“T hat’s it, S tan, just a mite higher; slowly now, slowly.”
The boys watched expectantly as Stan Kochanski ever so slowly raised the stick with a battered kepi atop it.
“Come on, slow like. Bob it up, then down, and then back up again. Play it, damn it, play it.”
Stan grinned, his newfound comrades almost treating him as an equal even though he was a “fresh fish,” a new recruit to the 48th Pennsylvania Volunteers.
He edged the brim of the hat above the lip of the trench.
“Now down, quick, you dumb Pole, quick!”
He jerked it back down as ordered by his brother, Johann, a sergeant.
“All right, boys, now we move a few feet and catch ourselves a Reb.”
The group crawled along the trench, Stan suppressing a gagging feeling as they passed an open latrine pit dug into one wall of their forward line.
“Here’s a good spot,” Johann announced. “Now again, but this time pop it up and keep it there.”
Johann looked farther down the line.
“Michael, you ready?”
Private Michael O’Shay, purportedly the best shot with the regiment, was concealed in what the men called a “spider hole” dug into the forward side of the trench during the night, a narrow indentation, dirt piled atop the lip, then carefully leveled, a small aperture cut into the dirt, fixed in place with a few boards from a ration box and masked with canvas scrubbed with red clay so that it blended in. His rifle was laid in place, with the front of the barrel covered in grease so it would not glint under the noonday sun. Michael did not reply, merely tapping a foot in reply, stock of his gun set tight against his shoulder.
“Now, Stan!”
Stan did as ordered, raising the hat atop the pole up over the lip of the trench and waiting.
He didn’t have long to wait.
A bullet caught the hat square, barely an inch to the right of center of the brow, the hat whipping backward, flying off the stick, the hit from the .58-caliber minié ball shattering the stick as well, knocking it out of
James’s glance was actually one of anger.
“Mr. President, if it was anyone else in the world asking me this, I would tell them to go to hell.”
Lincoln forced a homey smile.
“But you won’t say that to your President and your friend.”
“You know I can’t refuse a request from my President,” and he finally smiled again. “And my friend.”
Lincoln slowly stood up and extended his hand.
“Thank you, James. Now back you go to Willard’s. I can try to order you not to drink, but I don’t want you to make a promise you will not keep. But do try for moderation.”
“After tomorrow, but tonight…” He shook his head. “Sorry, sir.”
Lincoln patted him on the shoulder again and guided him out the door. Nicolay looked up, holding a sheaf of papers, as James left the front office.
“New dispatches?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything pressing I need to do right now?”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
“Tomorrow, then,” and he closed the door to be alone.
He went back to the window. The last of the boats had turned the bend and were out of sight, five thousand more men for the front lines.
He thought of the song so popular only a year ago, but rarely heard anymore, “Battle Cry of Freedom,” and the refrain: “And we’ll fill our vacant ranks with a million freemen more…”
The nation was running out of men willing to fight. But then again, so was the South.
One victory, dear Lord, he thought, just one good clear victory. No mistakes by generals this time, no lost orders, and no bitter infighting. The men on those boats deserved their chance, and perhaps they would be the key to that victory, for they had a stake in this fight, if anyone did.
CHAPTER THREE
PETERSBURG, VIRGINIA
JUNE 25, 1864
“T hat’s it, S tan, just a mite higher; slowly now, slowly.”
The boys watched expectantly as Stan Kochanski ever so slowly raised the stick with a battered kepi atop it.
“Come on, slow like. Bob it up, then down, and then back up again. Play it, damn it, play it.”
Stan grinned, his newfound comrades almost treating him as an equal even though he was a “fresh fish,” a new recruit to the 48th Pennsylvania Volunteers.
He edged the brim of the hat above the lip of the trench.
“Now down, quick, you dumb Pole, quick!”
He jerked it back down as ordered by his brother, Johann, a sergeant.
“All right, boys, now we move a few feet and catch ourselves a Reb.”
The group crawled along the trench, Stan suppressing a gagging feeling as they passed an open latrine pit dug into one wall of their forward line.
“Here’s a good spot,” Johann announced. “Now again, but this time pop it up and keep it there.”
Johann looked farther down the line.
“Michael, you ready?”
Private Michael O’Shay, purportedly the best shot with the regiment, was concealed in what the men called a “spider hole” dug into the forward side of the trench during the night, a narrow indentation, dirt piled atop the lip, then carefully leveled, a small aperture cut into the dirt, fixed in place with a few boards from a ration box and masked with canvas scrubbed with red clay so that it blended in. His rifle was laid in place, with the front of the barrel covered in grease so it would not glint under the noonday sun. Michael did not reply, merely tapping a foot in reply, stock of his gun set tight against his shoulder.
“Now, Stan!”
Stan did as ordered, raising the hat atop the pole up over the lip of the trench and waiting.
He didn’t have long to wait.
A bullet caught the hat square, barely an inch to the right of center of the brow, the hat whipping backward, flying off the stick, the hit from the .58-caliber minié ball shattering the stick as well, knocking it out of
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