Road to Antietam: Galloway, #1

Chapter One

Picket Duty

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Private Christopher Galloway of the 8th Ohio Volunteer Infantry stood alone in pitch darkness, looking out on what appeared to be an empty field. It was a moonless night, and he couldn’t see anything before him but a flat landscape broken up by darker shapes he hoped were trees or large bushes. Behind him, a woodlot thick with second growth trees separated him from the camp.

Fresh out of training, this was their first night in the field. Christopher had the two-to-four shift for picket duty, which was the worst shift because the enemy could sneak up on you, unseen, and kill you before you could react. Or so he’d heard.

The feelings of isolation and fear reminded him of a hunting trip he’d gone on with his father and brother when he was ten. His first time camping, he did not know how easily he could lose his bearings in the woods at night. It had been a moonless night then as well when he woke needing to pee. Careful not to wake his father or Daniel, he got up and left the camp. When he finished, he turned to go back and realized he didn’t know how to retrace his steps. He froze, afraid of going the wrong way. The longer he stood still, the harder it was to breathe, and the heavier his legs became—taking a step suddenly seemed impossible.

The trees seemed to lean over him as they swayed in the wind, the sound of their rustling leaves like beasts pawing the earth. In his mind, every tree and bush hid a bear, or wolf, or worse—an Indian. It didn’t matter that there hadn’t been a hostile Indian in the area for almost fifty years, or that bears and wolves were nearly extinct. He knew they were out there, waiting to pounce. Christopher turned in circles, looking for any recognizable landscape marker or ferocious attacker. He saw neither.

His father, Jack, found him the next morning, curled up in a fetal position with his thumb in his mouth. Jack carried him back to the camp and set him next to the fire. When he tried to move away to put more wood on the fire, Christopher reached out and grabbed his coattail, shaking his head, his eyes wide and mouth open in a silent scream. Jack sat back down, draped his arm over Christopher’s shoulders, and squeezed him tight against his side.

Daniel built up the fire, cooked breakfast, and set a plate of flapjacks at Christopher’s feet. He sat down next to his brother but didn’t touch him or say anything. He just sat there, poking the fire with a stick.

After several minutes, Christopher’s hunger got the best of him. He crawled out from under his father’s arm, picked up the plate of flapjacks, and wolfed them down.

There’s my boy, Jack said, patting him on the back.

Want some more? Daniel asked.

Christopher nodded and looked up at his father. I’m sorry, Da. I went to pee and didn’t know how to get back.

No harm done, son. You weren’t far from camp. You shoulda just hollered—one of us would have come got ya.

I was afraid, Christopher whispered.

Bah, there’s nothing to fear in these woods, son. In fact, with me and your brother about, you have nothing to fear from anything.

That’s right, Daniel said, looking him in the eye. Nothing as long as I’m around.

Now, as Christopher stood in the dark field, he knew Daniel was somewhere nearby on the picket line. Their first time in the woods together in years. And, for the first time in years, Christopher remembered what it felt like to be alone and afraid, conjuring up hostiles behind every bush and tree. Only now they weren’t wild animals and Indians, but rebel soldiers.

Despite a chill that settled in as the night progressed, Christopher's collar was wet with sweat, and he ran his finger under it to dry his neck. He wiped his hands on his jacket several times, but they still seemed damp and slippery, and he feared dropping his rifle.

A breeze came through the trees and set the landscape in motion. Christopher’s grip on his rifle tightened.

The tension combined with the quiet of the night and lack of sleep took their toll and Christopher started to sway, then jerked upright with a start. He tried marching back and forth, but it didn’t help.

Sleep filled his every thought—a sweet surrender from the fatigue, fear, and isolation that enveloped him. But if he slept, he might be killed or captured by the enemy or, if caught, shot by his own side. But worst of all, if they were attacked while he slept, he would be responsible for the destruction of his regiment.

Christopher closed his eyes. Only for a moment.

He smiled as he recalled the train ride from Camp Dennison. The men drank, sang, and bragged non-stop for two days. It was his first taste of alcohol and, once he got past the burning sensation, he found he liked it. It made him feel confident and in control.

In every town, people came out to line the tracks and cheer them on. In Zanesville, the citizens had even prepared a feast for the regiment. They were heroes, revered by all.

It was in Zanesville where he’d met Susan—who, unfortunately, bore the same name as that harpy Daniel wanted to marry. Though they only had a short time together, it was full of passionate affection that brought a tear to Christopher’s eye. When they parted, she’d given him a silk scarf and an apple pie she had baked herself. The last of the pie was consumed with last night’s supper, but the scarf was still in his pocket.

He retrieved the kerchief and ran it through his fingers. Its softness made him think of Susan’s hands in his as the train whistle blew and the drumbeat called him away. He held the cloth to his nose, closed his eyes, and breathed in her scent.

They parted with promises to write, and Christopher said he would stop and visit her on his way back from the war. Susan. Sweet Susan. Susan...His eyes flew open.  He didn’t know her last name. How would they correspond if he didn’t have her full name? Angrily, he shoved the scarf back in his pocket.

The realization he’d been stupid enough to leave without getting Susan’s full name gave Christopher a brief charge. His thoughts flew from berating his forgetfulness to doubting Susan’s intentions of ever writing. But soon, even that couldn't keep his eyelids from drooping and his head from falling down on his chest.

He jerked upright. He would not sleep.

He should have listened to Daniel and slept that afternoon instead of wandering the camp with Ezra, taking in the sights and visiting with the soldiers who’d already been in the field and seen action.

Christopher stamped his feet, shook his head and slapped his cheek. Though against regulations, he unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt and jacket, hoping the cool air would help keep him alert.

Well, Chris old boy, your first night in the field, he said aloud. Somewhere out there are men willing to kill you on sight. And all you can think of is sleep.

Then he saw something move. A jolt of electricity shocked his body. All thoughts of sleep disappeared.

What he thought were bushes appeared to be moving. He brought his rifle up to the ready position and leaned forward, squinting to see better. Even after having plenty of time for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark, he still couldn’t make out anything specific in the landscape before him.

There it was again! He was sure now that something had moved.  The bushes were no longer in the same place.

His rifle was loaded with ball and powder, bayonet fixed, so all it needed was a percussion cap to fire. Christopher reached down, unlatched the cap box on his belt, and reached inside with shaking fingers. He pulled out three caps and dropped one. He tried to put the extra cap back in the box but missed and dropped both the remaining two. Cursing, he reached in again and pulled out a single cap. He brought it up to his rifle, then realized that the hammer was down on the nipple. He had to secure the cap between his fingers before he could pull the hammer back to half cock. In doing so, he dropped that percussion cap.

Dammit!

Christopher looked up to see if whatever was moving had gotten closer. His breath caught in his throat when he realized it had. Whatever-or whoever-it was, it/they had covered half the distance to him while he was fumbling to cap his rifle.

Christopher made sure the rifle hammer was half cocked before pulling out another cap. He pushed it onto the nipple before he could drop it.

He brought the rifle butt up to the crook of his shoulder and raised the barrel until it pointed at the ground about five yards before him.

HALT! Who comes there? he cried. His voice cracked on the word halt and he felt his cheeks burn. He sounded like a frightened child.

No response, but now he had no doubt something was out there. The whole landscape appeared to be moving.  What he thought were bushes were growing larger as they approached his position. 

HALT! he repeated. Who comes—

They charged. The ground shook and he heard metal clanging.  In his minds eye, the shapes became a line of rebel soldiers, their canteens and tin cups beating against their sides as they ran.  They let loose a mournful cry—almost as if they regretted having to kill him.

Christopher raised his rifle and fired without aiming. The mournful cry grew louder, and the din of their many feet stamping the earth was like thunder. He turned and ran. Corporal of the Guard! Post three! Corporal of the Guard! Post three! he yelled.

Christopher had gone only a few feet when it occurred to him he should reload his rifle. He looked down while he ran, trying to get a cartridge out of the box hanging on his right side, and ran headlong into Lieutenant Sutton. Behind Sutton stood Sergeant G and Corporal Bunce.

Lieutenant Sutton grabbed Christopher’s arms before he toppled over and shook him. Calm down, private. Did you fire?

Christopher nodded. They’re coming, sir! They’re coming.

Who’s coming, private? Slow down and take a breath. Tell me what you saw.

No time, sir. They were in the field right in front of me. A regiment, at least.

Without taking his eyes off of Christopher, Lieutenant Sutton barked out orders. Sergeant Reid, head back to camp. Sound the alarm. Bunce, go on ahead and check the other pickets. If necessary, pull them back. You, he said to Christopher, better be right.

Bunce and Reid disappeared into the night. Lieutenant Sutton pulled out his pistol and had Christopher reload his rifle. Cap it off, son, and take me to where you saw the enemy.

Christopher led him back to the clearing. Lieutenant Sutton crouched down and pulled Christopher down with him. To Christopher, it seemed they stayed like that forever, but was just a few minutes. All was quiet in the field.

Well, private. It would appear you single-handedly scared off a whole regiment.

It could have just been their skirmish line, sir. Maybe they pulled back to join the main body.

Maybe. Lieutenant Sutton was quiet for a couple minutes while he thought. Finally, he said, Let’s go back.  We’ll pull back the picket line and send out our own skirmish line to investigate.

They stood and turned to go when they heard the unmistakable lowing of a cow.

Their eyes locked-Lieutenant Sutton’s half-lidded and stern, Christopher’s wide as saucers.

That better not be what I think it is.

S-Sounds like a cow to me, sir, Christopher squeaked.

Lieutenant Sutton grabbed Christopher by the arm. Come on, private. Time to charge the enemy.

He pulled Christopher out into the field. As they moved through the high grass, the lowing got louder, and Christopher’s cheeks burned hotter with each step. His stomach was in full revolt, and he feared he would lose his supper at any moment.

They came upon five cows, shuffling nervously and lowing in distress.  Two of them had large bells hanging from chains around their necks that produced a dull clang if they moved suddenly.

Apparently, they don’t like being shot at, Lieutenant Sutton said.

No, sir, Christopher responded.

Shut up, private.

Christopher’s head dropped. He couldn’t remember ever feeling such shame. He thought he would be sick. His stomach churned and his limbs felt limp. It seemed to take all his strength to stand there in front of Lieutenant Sutton and not run off into the darkness.

Come on, private. Let’s go back. Sutton looked at Christopher. On second thought, you stay here. We can’t leave the picket line unmanned. He turned his attention toward camp. I just have to decide what to tell Major Sawyer and Captain Daggett.

Right after Lieutenant Sutton left, Christopher heard the drums. The long roll. The 8th’s first real call to fall in under arms. Only, it wasn’t real. They didn’t know that though.

He imagined the men spilling out of their tents in various shades of undress, throwing on belts and cartridge boxes and running to line up. They thought they were about to see the elephant. Instead, all they’d see was a cow. And a fool. They’d get a real good look at a fool tomorrow.

Christopher lifted his head and threw his shoulders back. Under the circumstances, anybody would have done the same thing. Something was out there, and it didn’t respond to his commands. What was he to do, walk out and say hello? He still felt nauseous and weak, but he’d be damned if he’d let anyone criticize him for doing his duty.

His shoulders slumped. Who was he kidding?

Christopher grunted with disgust and turned to face the field. The drum roll ended, and he could hear the officers shouting commands.

Damn me for a fool, he mumbled.

Chapter Two

April 1861

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The room was dark—dark wood, dark carpet, and dark leather all barely lit by a single lantern. A pall of smoke hung in the air, making it hard to breathe. Daniel Galloway’s nose itched, but he didn’t dare scratch or crinkle it. Before him sat the father of the woman he loved. Rich and powerful, Benjamin Johnston was the local prosecutor, and made his living at intimidation.

According to Daniel’s father, the Johnston family had made their money in agriculture. They were one of the first families to settle in the part of Ohio called the Firelands. (Congress had given the area to men whose homes were burned down by Tories for supporting the Revolution.) Johnston’s father was careful with his money, and when a neighbor fell on hard times, he was quick to buy up the land at the cheapest price possible.

Soon, the Johnstons owned most of the county and could afford a good education for their son. After graduating from Harvard, Benjamin Johnston considered going to New York, or Washington City, but instead he came back to Ohio with his eye on local politics. Johnston started out as a Democrat, but changed to the anti-immigrant American Party—the Know Nothings—in the early 1850s.

In contrast, the Galloways came to Norwalk in the late 1830s, fleeing the poverty and famine in Ireland. Penniless and hungry, they did whatever it took to survive, be it taking in laundry or working twelve hours a day during harvest. A cobbler by trade, Jack Galloway saved enough money to start a shoe shop. His work was good, and that quality eventually overcame prejudice and he thrived. As his business grew, so did his family. By the time the fifth child was born, he could afford a nice home on the edge of town. 

Johnston sat still, his eyes lidded, staring at the cigar in his hand as he rolled it back and forth between his fingers and thumb.

Daniel, he said. I respect your father, and your family. His fingers stopped. But I can’t allow you to marry my daughter.

Daniel pulled his shoulders back and tried to look the older man in the eye. Despite the sting of Johnston’s words and a fear that threatened to immobilize him, he knew from talking to Susan that Benjamin Johnston hated weakness and lack of control. If he let either his anger or his fear show, the man would devour him. He wanted to demand an explanation. Instead, he responded, All I ask is permission to write Susan while I’m gone. We can talk of marriage later. It was not what he came for, but it would have to do.

Johnston looked up into Daniel’s eyes, giving him his best courtroom scowl.

Daniel returned the stare and did not flinch.

I don’t see the point. You are an Irish papist, son, he said. I would rather die than see any descendant of mine raised in the Catholic Church.

Daniel broke eye contact and looked to the floor. He exhaled sharply as if physically struck. Though the room was cool, a single drop of sweat broke loose from his hairline and ran down his forehead, settling on his brow and threatening to drip into his eye. Still, he dared not flinch.

Johnston let a small smile flicker across his lips. Daniel could see the gleam of victory in his eye.

Daniel raised his eyes. I would allow Susan to raise our children in any religion she saw fit, he said.

Johnston grunted in disgust.

Sensing his answer did not go over well, Daniel tried to explain. I’m a Catholic, sir. That is true. But, I think the God I love and worship is the same God you love and worship, and to Him there are many paths as long as it is through Christ. I believe that, even if we attended separate churches, my children, my wife, and I will all be together in the Great Hereafter.

A pious sermon, son. Johnston smirked. Have you considered joining the clergy?

Daniel blushed. No, sir. In my faith that would preclude my getting married.

Johnston let loose a short guffaw before he caught himself and returned to a scowl.

Johnston turned his gaze toward the door, ignoring Daniel.

Daniel knew the man had wanted to send Susan to school back east, but she’d talked him into allowing her to stay in Norwalk and go to school at Oberlin College.  All was fine for a while, but then Johnston found out Susan’s real reason for wanting to stay in Norwalk was so she could continue to see Daniel and he’d flown into a rage that lasted for days.

Daniel flinched when Johnston’s hand flexed and broke his cigar. Whatever thoughts were going through the man’s mind, they were dark.

The silence in the room was becoming unbearable. As nonchalantly as possible, Daniel raised his hand and brushed the sweat off his brow. He fidgeted with his hat and tried to think of something to say. Sir, I love and respect—

Enough! Johnston slammed his palm on the desk. You’ve made your feelings clear. I need not hear it again.

Johnston took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. He let his gaze drift back to the door.

Daniel felt on the verge of panic. Was he trying to tell him to leave? He’d gotten nowhere with the older man. How could he make him understand? Soon he’d be off to war, to face death and deprivation. The thought of leaving without some assurance Susan would still be here when he returned made him physically ill. Daniel dreamed of a triumphant return followed by a grand wedding. He saw it so clearly—her in a flowing white gown and him in his finest uniform, his medals and rank proving to himself, his father, and this man before him that Daniel Galloway was a man of courage and honor, deserving of the hand of the most beautiful woman in the county.

He had to find the right thing to say...

Johnston interrupted his thoughts. So, you are leaving for the army?

Yes, sir. If there is to be war, I intend to do my part.

There will be war, son. This slavery nonsense needs to be settled once and for all—it’s getting out of hand. And now, with South Carolina firing on Fort Sumner...there will be war.

Johnston turned his gaze back to Daniel. War is a terrible thing, son, nothing but death and destruction. But, from the ashes of that destruction can come glory. Men are broken or made by war, depending on how they comport themselves.

Johnston stood and paced the room, his hands behind his back and his head hung low as if he were thinking. This may be your chance, not just to serve your country, but to serve yourself. You do well and rise to the challenge, maybe then you will prove yourself worthy of my daughter’s hand. He stopped and looked Daniel in the eye.

But, if you shirk your duty, disgrace yourself, or just be content to get by, then you will prove to me, and hopefully to yourself and Susan, that you are undeserving of such a reward. When this war is over, come back here with a hero’s rank and insignia, then we will talk further about you taking—seeing my daughter.

Johnston returned to his seat. He picked up and shuffled through some papers, ignoring Daniel.

Daniel stood with his mouth half open, staring. It was as if the man had been reading his thoughts. He would return a hero and—

Well, is what I said clear? Johnston snapped.

Ye-Yes, sir. It is more than clear.

Good, go now. Benjamin Johnston stood up and came around the desk. And once the war is over, come back here and show me what you have done.

Yes, sir, thank you, sir. I will not let you down. Daniel almost skipped as Benjamin Johnston led him through the door and out into the foyer.

Both men stopped. Halfway up the stairs stood Susan Johnston, small and thin-waisted, wearing a dark gray dress.  Her golden hair was parted in the middle and draped over her shoulders in tight ringlets. Daniel could smell her perfume over the cigar stench. She stood as if in mid-step, staring at both men with eager curiosity.

Susan, it’s all right— Daniel began.

Susan! her father interrupted. Go back to your room. I’ll be along shortly and we’ll discuss this matter, you and I.

For a moment Susan’s eyes moved back and forth between the two men. Then, Yes, Father. Her eyes lingered briefly on Daniel’s before she turned and went back up the stairs.

Daniel knew that Johnston had not missed the brief connection.  If the older man had had a gun, Daniel would have feared for his life.

Johnston opened the door and stepped aside to let Daniel pass. A cool, damp April breeze blew into the room. Remember what we discussed, Daniel. This is your chance to prove yourself. Until you have done so, I expect you to keep your distance.

I had hoped she would see me off—

And I had hoped she’d...I had hoped we had an agreement. Do we?

Yes, sir. Of course. Daniel stepped through the door and Johnston closed it behind him.

He stood on the front porch of the Johnston home and let the cool breeze dry the sweat on his brow.  As he started for home, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that, while uncomfortable, his encounter with Benjamin Johnston had gone too easily.

***

Christopher Galloway ran through the streets of Norwalk toward the train station. The plume of smoke that lingered above the station assured him he wasn’t too late.

When he arrived, flushed and out of breath, he saw his whole family waiting on the platform. His father was sucking on a pipe, looking deep in thought as he conversed with Franklin Sawyer, the elected captain of their company. His mother was trying to keep the younger girls, Rebecca and Rachel, entertained with games of pat-a-cake and childish conversation. The older daughter, Elizabeth, fourteen and already showing a streak of precocious rebellion, was twirling her umbrella and eyeing the line of young men standing on the platform waiting to board the train. Daniel was pacing back and forth and, seeing Christopher, stopped and threw up his hands.

Where have you been? We’ll be boarding soon.

Well, you ain’t boarded yet, Christopher shot back.

"You have not boarded yet, Christopher. You know better," his mother said without missing a beat of the game of pat-a-cake she was playing with Rachel.

Yes, Ma. Looking at Daniel, Christopher stuck his nose in the air and said, You have not boarded yet. Therefore, I am not late.

Galloway, you’re late!

Christopher’s smug expression froze at the sound of Sawyer’s voice. Daniel cracked a small smile of victory.

Looking at Mr. Sawyer and his father, Christopher tried to approximate what he thought was an attention stance. Sir?

Everyone was to be on the platform at nine a.m. It is after nine-thirty. Where have you been?

I thought the train didn’t leave until ten o’clock, Christopher said.

Doesn’t matter when the train leaves. Your orders were to be here at nine o’clock and not a minute later. Do you understand?

Christopher felt his whole being melting away under the glare of his father and Franklin Sawyer.

I thought...No one woke me, he mumbled, casting a sidelong glance at his mother.

Bah, his father burst out in disgust.

And what about tomorrow? Do you think your mommy will be there to wake you every morning? Your brother? Sawyer asked. From this day forward, until you are released from service, Daniel is not your brother. He is not responsible for you or your actions. Not even you are responsible for you. The army now owns you. Is that understood?

Yes, sir, Christopher mumbled, trying not to slump, or worse, let a tear slip.

I suggest you two make your goodbyes and join the line, Sawyer said to Christopher and Daniel. Turning to Jack Galloway, he held out a hand and said, Jack, I’ll see you when this war is over.

Jack Galloway shook Franklin Sawyer’s hand. Thank ye, Frank, for watch’er doin’. Look after me boys, and all three of you come home safe and sound, ya hear?

Sawyer smiled, tipped his hat, and bowed slightly to Mary Galloway. Then turned and walked to the head of the line.

Come on, girls, Mary said. Come say goodbye to your brothers. Elizabeth, get over here and make your goodbyes.

The girls lined up by age and height. Elizabeth looked bored, and the other two tried their best to appear coquettish. Daniel approached each girl and handed her a yellow silk ribbon. Save this until my return, he promised, and when I get back, I’ll turn it into a pretty dress.

Each of the girls curtsied. Rachel and Rebecca hugged their oldest brother and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Elizabeth held out her hand, which Daniel took and gallantly kissed.

Christopher hesitated, realizing he had nothing to give his sisters. His mother stepped up beside him and slipped three pieces of red ribbon into his hand. He gave her a quick smile of thanks and stepped up to the girls.

Here you go, girls, that’ll be two dresses you’ll get at the end of the war.

Rachel and Rebecca each gave him a hug and a kiss. Elizabeth stuck out her hand. Instead of lightly grasping the outstretched hand and kissing it as his brother had, Christopher grabbed it in his right hand and pumped it up and down while chucking her on the shoulder with his other