Death Piled Hard

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Chapter One

(3 July, 1863)

"Why do you think they will believe us?" Bill White had asked.

Devereux had ordered him and Sergeant John Quick to cross into the Confederate lines to describe to General Lee what Meade's intentions were for the next day. This was a sentence of death. The chance that they might survive the experience in the midst of the unfinished battle was very small.

The foolishness of this was like the order with which Lee had sent an army corps forward that day to certain ruin.

Devereux had not answered White. He could not answer. He was, for the moment, a dumb beast.

My brother is dead? Is it possible that Patrick is truly gone, never to return? Is it possible?

He sat on the ground, cross legged, staring at the little fire on which they had set a can of water to boil for coffee. With one hand, he worked at arranging the burning pieces of wood to his satisfaction. The sticks hissed and popped as the heat drove out water. The other hand held the open silver case of his watch. "Tell them you come from me, from Hannibal," he told Bill, "Tell them you come from me."

Bill studied his friend in the unsteady, yellow light. Nearby, Fred Kennedy and John Quick sat with their backs to trees. They knew this was not a conversation in which they would be welcomed.

"Now, why would they take the word of a strange black man and an Irish deserter?" Bill asked. "You know them, Claude. You know how bad this may be." White's eyes held no pleading, no expectation of a reprieve. In his heart he knew that Devereux would not relent, could not make a different choice.

"I must go home." Claude said as though the statement would explain everything. Patrick's body lay ten feet away, wrapped in a rubber army ground sheet. His boot soles protruded from one end of the covering. It was unacceptable that he was gone, unacceptable to them all.

Bill understood that. He had caught himself making a mental note to tell the dead man that one of his heels was broken.

"I cannot cross the lines," Devereux continued. "The risk to our mission is too great. I probably could not get back."

"And Lieutenant Kennedy?"

"I have something for him to do in New York, something that will not wait." He looked at Kennedy. "Johnston Mitchell. His time is come. You will not forget?" Kennedy shook his head. He was not really listening, but that did not matter. He knew what was wanted.

Fifteen minutes later White and Quick disappeared into the night, headed for the gentle rise of Cemetery Hill. Beyond the rise lay Gettysburg and the Army of Northern Virginia.

The next morning Devereux sat silently with Kennedy on the wagon's seat as they left the battlefield.

The provost guards let them pass without comment after looking at Devereux's credentials from the War Department.

They decided that they would go to Baltimore to seek preservation for the body and transportation to Alexandria.

Before they left Gettysburg, Claude asked George Sharpe to have the news of Patrick's death sent to the family with their probable route. Sharpe had not heard of Patrick's death and went to find George Meade after saying that he would see to the message.

Devereux managed to avoid shaking Meade's hand, turning his back to him slightly as if to hide his tears.

Sharpe thanked Claude profusely for the help that his brother had given the army's order of battle study in the previous days.

Finally, the hypocrisy of his acceptance of Yankee condolence ended.

Union cavalry was spread across the rear of the army.

Meade had said that he was not sure that Lee would move away. For that reason the army still sat on the "fish hook" of hills, waiting to be sure that the Confederates would not attack again.

Near Hanover a cavalry officer, sweating in the heat, looked at the boots sticking out from under the tarpaulin in the wagon bed and suggested that there was an ice house in the little town. The trip to Baltimore would take two more days. Claude paid the ice house a dollar for enough cracked ice to cover his brother's body a foot deep. Two men broke the ice with sledgehammers while another shoveled the ice on top of Patrick's body.

The long ride down to Baltimore and the railroad was endless in the steaming weather of July. The countryside was so pretty and green that it was hard to believe in the reality of what they had seen, heard and smelled. Birds sang. Insects buzzed and Mennonite farmers stood at the side of the road watching gravely as they passed. Most removed their round brimmed hats when they saw Pat's boots sticking out on the lowered tailgate.

They reached Baltimore around four in the afternoon on the sixth, and went to the telegraph station. There they found Joseph White and John Everly, the undertaker. They had come in the belief that the body would surely pass through Baltimore. They had divided their time among the railroad stations and the telegraph office.

Claude went in with Joe to talk to the telegraph people.

Everly looked in the wagon and asked how often they had filled it with ice.

"Three times altogether, we bought more every time we found an ice house," was Kennedy's reply.

"This was a good idea. We can cover up water discoloration ... I think we should find some more ice." He looked up the street at likely businesses. "I'll ask the telegrapher," he finally said and then, unaccountably, laughed.

Kennedy looked at him in surprise behind which something else grew. He seemed to get bigger standing there in the heat and horse dust of the unpaved street. His normally florid complexion darkened.

"No, no," Everly said, holding up his hands to ward off the growing menace. "I'm as torn up about this as you are. I was just wondering how my sister is going to take this." He glanced at Pat's body under the ice and canvas and shook his head. "There was a time when the two of them were pretty sweet on each other. Then he took to courting Robert Lee's girl. It damn near killed her. Then, he married someone else yet. I don't think Clara ever truly got over him ..."

Kennedy nodded, remembering this small town drama, remembering that Everly's rather pretty sister had never married. He remembered her growing up around town, part of the background of daily life. "Tell her I will come to see her when I can," he said. "I.. I.." He suddenly realized that this expression of his interest was inappropriate to the moment and said no more.

Everly did not know what to say. It had not occurred to him that Fred Kennedy might be attracted to his sister Clara. "Aren't you coming with us," he asked to change the subject?

"No. You and Joe can take everyone home. Joe will get the team back to my stable. They're my horses. I rented them out to Claude for this trip north. The family doesn't have horses heavy enough for this. Theirs are too fine bred. These are some lucky animals. Neither has a scratch on him. I'll ask Joe to load them and the rig into a car together for the trip."

"We'll put the body in there too when I find a box. Joe can ride with it."

"Claude won't let you do that," murmured Kennedy. "He'll want to sit with Pat."

Devereux came out of the telegraph office with White.

They told him what they wanted to do....