remained in the saddle.
Well, they wouldn’t stay mounted for long.
His men could see nothing from their hides, nor could they hear much, if anything, but they tightened as one—he felt it like a sudden temperature change—sensing the approach of battle, as veterans did.
Ricketts had nothing more to say to them, not until it was time for the fateful order. He didn’t want to move his lips, to appear to be giving commands, in case some Reb was eyeing him through a spyglass. Let them wonder why an old fool in a blue suit was sitting on a horse, alone in a dried-out grainfield in the heat. Just let them wonder.
And let them come on, straight through that corn, he begged of any higher power that could hear. James B. Ricketts was not much given to prayer, but he asked for help now: Lord, let them come straight on.
11:20 a.m.
The Worthington house yard
The men near McCausland hurried about, full of purpose but still a tad shocked at the order that there would be no horse-holders this time. Every mount was to be tied to a tree or fence, while every cavalryman in the brigade would go into battle as an infantryman. McCausland was certain that the illusion of infantry formations on their flank would be all it took to set the blue-bellies running for their mothers’ teats.
He nodded at his reassembled colonels. “Brigade front. Two lines. Every flag held high—you tell your boys to wave ’em and wave ’em hard.” He pointed across the cornfield. Just beyond it, a lone Yankee horseman sat watching them. Well, let him have a good look and warn his Sunday-soldiers what was coming.
Probably a few more Yankees about, he figured, vedettes out on the flank. Maybe the same turn-tails who’d run down at the ford.
“Midway through that cornfield, order your men to the double-quick. And I want them hooting and hollering. Those blue-bellies need to hear us long before they see us, let ’em think it’s Doomsday and the legions of Hell are swarming.” His expression turned as cold as the day was hot. “We’re going to show Old Jubilee how Virginia Cavalry fight. Y’all get moving.”
Three of four colonels saluted and strode toward their mounts. Only Tavenner hesitated.
“Shouldn’t we send a few boys forward to scout things?” the colonel asked. “See what all might be out there?”
McCausland felt his expression turn downright cruel. “Worried about a few militia, W.C.?”
11:40 a.m.
Ricketts’ skirmish line
Flags flying, God help them. Everything but a brass band. The Confederates had dressed their two ranks as if on parade, stepped their colors forward, and come straight on, every officer mounted. It was a glorious spectacle, and it was absolute folly.
Ricketts held his horse steady and kept his expression steadier. Every man along his line looked in his direction, the soldiers flat on the ground and wed to their rifles, the officers kneeling or crouching low—Ricketts was damned well going to court-martial any idiot who popped up for a look at what was coming.
And the Rebs … they hadn’t even sent skirmishers ahead. They just prettied up those two long lines and advanced.
Their first rank marched into the corn, filling their little portion of the world with a thrashing, crashing noise that seemed to rival the artillery duel to Ricketts’ rear. The flag-bearers waved their banners like frantic signalers.
One officer caught Ricketts’ eye: He rode forward with one hand cocked on his hip, deigning to draw neither sword nor pistol, as disdainful as a schoolmarm catching out dunces.
The thrashing in the cornfield grew louder as the second rank entered the stalks.
Going to be an early harvest, Ricketts thought.
He knew he had them, but even so, the spectacle of their advance sent a quiver through him.
Then the dab of fear was gone again and there were only those brave, doomed lines, pushing through the crotch-covering corn, rifles held abreast now, their order disturbed by the resistance of the
Well, they wouldn’t stay mounted for long.
His men could see nothing from their hides, nor could they hear much, if anything, but they tightened as one—he felt it like a sudden temperature change—sensing the approach of battle, as veterans did.
Ricketts had nothing more to say to them, not until it was time for the fateful order. He didn’t want to move his lips, to appear to be giving commands, in case some Reb was eyeing him through a spyglass. Let them wonder why an old fool in a blue suit was sitting on a horse, alone in a dried-out grainfield in the heat. Just let them wonder.
And let them come on, straight through that corn, he begged of any higher power that could hear. James B. Ricketts was not much given to prayer, but he asked for help now: Lord, let them come straight on.
11:20 a.m.
The Worthington house yard
The men near McCausland hurried about, full of purpose but still a tad shocked at the order that there would be no horse-holders this time. Every mount was to be tied to a tree or fence, while every cavalryman in the brigade would go into battle as an infantryman. McCausland was certain that the illusion of infantry formations on their flank would be all it took to set the blue-bellies running for their mothers’ teats.
He nodded at his reassembled colonels. “Brigade front. Two lines. Every flag held high—you tell your boys to wave ’em and wave ’em hard.” He pointed across the cornfield. Just beyond it, a lone Yankee horseman sat watching them. Well, let him have a good look and warn his Sunday-soldiers what was coming.
Probably a few more Yankees about, he figured, vedettes out on the flank. Maybe the same turn-tails who’d run down at the ford.
“Midway through that cornfield, order your men to the double-quick. And I want them hooting and hollering. Those blue-bellies need to hear us long before they see us, let ’em think it’s Doomsday and the legions of Hell are swarming.” His expression turned as cold as the day was hot. “We’re going to show Old Jubilee how Virginia Cavalry fight. Y’all get moving.”
Three of four colonels saluted and strode toward their mounts. Only Tavenner hesitated.
“Shouldn’t we send a few boys forward to scout things?” the colonel asked. “See what all might be out there?”
McCausland felt his expression turn downright cruel. “Worried about a few militia, W.C.?”
11:40 a.m.
Ricketts’ skirmish line
Flags flying, God help them. Everything but a brass band. The Confederates had dressed their two ranks as if on parade, stepped their colors forward, and come straight on, every officer mounted. It was a glorious spectacle, and it was absolute folly.
Ricketts held his horse steady and kept his expression steadier. Every man along his line looked in his direction, the soldiers flat on the ground and wed to their rifles, the officers kneeling or crouching low—Ricketts was damned well going to court-martial any idiot who popped up for a look at what was coming.
And the Rebs … they hadn’t even sent skirmishers ahead. They just prettied up those two long lines and advanced.
Their first rank marched into the corn, filling their little portion of the world with a thrashing, crashing noise that seemed to rival the artillery duel to Ricketts’ rear. The flag-bearers waved their banners like frantic signalers.
One officer caught Ricketts’ eye: He rode forward with one hand cocked on his hip, deigning to draw neither sword nor pistol, as disdainful as a schoolmarm catching out dunces.
The thrashing in the cornfield grew louder as the second rank entered the stalks.
Going to be an early harvest, Ricketts thought.
He knew he had them, but even so, the spectacle of their advance sent a quiver through him.
Then the dab of fear was gone again and there were only those brave, doomed lines, pushing through the crotch-covering corn, rifles held abreast now, their order disturbed by the resistance of the
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