Three Came Home Volume III - Rutherford: A Civil War Trilogy

By Edward Aronoff

In 1865 at the battle of Five Forks, Colonel Rutherford's luck will run out. He is wounded there taking a sharpshooter's bullet in his left shoulder. Refusing to stay in a Confederate hospital and against doctor's orders, the colonel starts off on horseback for his North Carolina home.
Along the way a suffering Rutherford meets up with a deserter who wants his horse. After his fight with the deserter Colonel Rutherford is now bleeding badly. He makes it to Rebecca Morgan's farm and while trying to get water from her well, faints from loss of blood.
Rebecca takes him in and nurses Colonel Rutherford back to health and he is grateful to her for her care.
But all is not well for Rebecca. She is beset by scalawags and carpetbaggers who will go to any lengths to cheat her out of hearth and home. Somehow, Rutherford must find a way to help her preserve her home and way of life. In helping Rebecca, Rutherford finds that love is the most unpredictable adventure of all.
After a while, Rutherford leaves and Rebecca is torn between leaving for St. Louis and staying in North Carolina to wait for Rutherford. No reader will ever forget her decision.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 12, 2007
• ISBN: 9780977261260

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Preface

This Civil War defies man’s sense of proportion. The numbers of casualties alone are overwhelming.

There were 12,401 Union dead, wounded and missing in one day at Antietam. That was double the amount of casualties at D-Day, 82 years later.*

Over 50,000 men were killed, wounded and captured in the three-day battle at Gettysburg. In Pickett’s charge the dead (1,500) and wounded (6,000) took place in a failed attack that took less than one hour. In one day at Spotsylvania the casualties numbered 31,421. Only God could tally the number of dead at the Bloody Angle.

It overwhelms the mind and stretches the imagination. 

Is it any wonder that even after 142 years, America cannot forget?

— Edward Aronoff                 

*Lee lost one fourth of his army, 10,318 men.

Three Came Home

Volume III – Rutherford

Foreword

In 1861, 100,000 angry Southerners, reacting to Lincoln’s call for Federal Volunteers to curb the rebellion, descended on the Confederacy to form the Rebel Army. In actuality they were useless, an undisciplined, raw, armed mob.

Turning this ragged bunch of rebellious individualists into what would become the finest fighting machine to ever grace this continent became the job of the West Point officers from the South. These were the 306 West Point graduates that turned away from the country that gave them their education, and led the Rebel Army against the flag they once swore to uphold.

To their credit these 306 men never took an active part in precipitating the conflict, and entered the fray only with the deepest regret.

Without the assistance of these Southern officers there would have been no Army of the Tennessee, and no legendary Army of Northern Virginia. It was only because they gave of their minds, and hearts, and eventually their lives that the Confederacy lasted for four years against the Union Armies that outnumbered and outgunned the Rebel Armies, and should have overwhelmed them in a matter of months.

Unfortunately to show their men how to be courageous, the West Pointers many times had to lead the charges against the Union Army. Since these officers were a limited resource, if they were killed or wounded the army was weakened. And killed they were.

For example, General Lee lost so many of his officers at Gettysburg that he had to put men in their positions that were not up to the job. Hood had six of his generals killed at the Battle of Franklin. In addition Lee lost all three of his corps commanders while he grappled with Grant from The Wilderness to Petersburg.

Like the RAF in WWII, these bold and daring West Point officers were the few upon whom the Confederacy relied upon to field an army.

Colonel Raymond Rutherford, was one of The Few.

Robbing and burning and killing

Chapter 1

April 13, 1865

It was the beginning of the day only a hunter or a soldier in the field knows. To Rutherford it was the best time of the day. When the sun came up the beauty of the dawn almost made him forget the pain in his arm. The sky was clear and the stars and moon paled gradually before the red glow of the sun coming up over the horizon. Stately pines greeted the dawn stretching their newly budded branches toward the heavens. The light of the sun gradually made the black of the sky turn blue, and the cumulus clouds different shades of white. Cardinals, so fiery scarlet in bright daylight, appearing black against the billowing clouds, darted this way and that, looking for breakfast.

In this idyllic setting it was hard for Rutherford to realize that just yesterday he was at the van of a troop of soldiers whose sole purpose was to kill Yankees. We fought to protect our homes and families; but still, killing other Americans was a high and bitter price to pay.

The trees in the foothills were barely showing their new leaves just as Rutherford got there. Bursts of red, yellow and purple wild flowers floored the valleys while the slow, steady farmer’s rain of the last few days made the creeks run full. At the edges of creeks and rivers, willows swayed and danced, and the bright green grass turned the mountainside into a lush Turkish carpet. 

Rutherford moved his sorrel mare through a shadowy wood then, holding his arm tightly to his chest, loped the horse through a wet, silvery field, her four white socks rising and falling in the tall swaying grass.

The jolting gait of the mare made the pain unbearable and he quickly slowed the horse to a walk. Maybe if I move the arm a little.

Rutherford touched the offending arm. It was hot and seemed to him to be twice as big as the other one. Without thinking he shifted the injured arm a few inches forward.

Rutherford heard his own resulting scream as he reeled in the saddle. For a few moments the world became black, as if the sun had suddenly disappeared, and he was conscious of a deep, ill feeling in his stomach. With an enormous effort he righted himself. At all this unusual motion the mare stopped, turned her head and looked quizzically at him. Rutherford, feeling sick to his stomach, leaned over the side of the horse and threw up a liquid, colored green by its bile content.

He wiped his mouth and grimaced at the foul, bilious taste. He stared at his injured arm. This wound has sapped my strength, and my will, and almost has my reason.

When the pain returned to a tolerable level, he patted the horse’s withers with his good hand. You’ll have to crop grass for your supper, Girl, he said to the mare, I won’t be able to stop and get down.

The reddish-brown colored sorrel sensing a problem turned her head again and looked at her master. She snorted and whinnied her displeasure as Rutherford kneed her, and they continued south. In a few minutes they left the field, and entered another wooded area, this time a darker and more sinister looking forest.

Rutherford immediately felt uneasy. Most of his life he had been single mindedly sure of himself, untroubled by the myriad conflicts that plagued most of his peers. But now he was in different territory, alone, almost helpless, with an infirmity tormenting him almost to the point of no return.

The morning turned warm and soon sweat popped out on his forehead, darkening his armpits, and later making a wet streak down the back of his shirt.

Damn, I don’t want to lose this arm. Not after all the shooting is over. But I have such a long way to go. How am I going to get over the mountains with this blasted wound? His heart sunk and he felt trapped and depressed. How will I get home? Maybe I should have stayed in camp and had the surgeon treat me— No! I’ve seen too many good limbs hacked off. The surgeons are too knife happy, he muttered aloud.

Damn our generals! This time Rutherford shouted. Damn Pickett for being at that Shad Bake instead of being with his troops. And damn General Lee for being so stubborn and not capitulating before Five Forks. If he had quit then, there’d be a whole lot of live Rebels on this same road with me, going home. 

A stiff wind picked up and Rutherford saw the first dark cloud of a summer storm. He goaded the horse in her sides again to quicken her pace down the trail. Soon the clouds swallowed the sun and the sky turned gray.

All day long Rutherford stayed in the saddle, standing in the stirrups only to urinate. Food was a problem but he didn’t dare halt. The horse will just have to graze, he thought, and I’ll go without. He laughed to himself. I’m used to that.

Rutherford touched his hot and swollen arm. I need some help. Maybe I’ll find a house down the road. I wouldn’t let them touch me before, but I’d settle for a doctor now. Damn, at this point I’d give a month’s pay for a vet.

Along with the slate colored sky came a soft, misty drizzle. As an early night came on the temperature dropped. Now he was wet and cold. Rutherford longed to make a campfire but was unsure if the pain would let him get out of the saddle. He was certain the agony in his arm wouldn’t let him get back up again.

Racked with indecision he instead let the mare have her head. The rhythmic movement of the mare lulled Rutherford. Soon cobwebs filled his head, and he fell fast asleep in the saddle. The lengthening shadows of the wood seemed to close around horse and man like a shroud, and he slept the sleep that knows no peace.

While he was dreaming a steady rain began, making the road a patchwork of mud holes.

Without guidance the mare picked her way through the muddy depressions daintily, like a fancy lady leaving her carriage in an afternoon shower.

It was almost dark when Rutherford was startled awake by a sudden clap of thunder just above him. He looked about. The sky was dark and angry, the clouds as swollen and black as his arm.

By now Rutherford was thoroughly wet and the cold air made him shiver. The exhausted mare had stopped and was standing in the middle of the trail, head down, almost ankle deep in the mud, her white socks hidden under a layer of muck. Even a sharp crack of lightening did not disturb her from slurping water from a puddle in the road.

Rutherford could feel his arm thumping again and with each pulsation a dull, hot pain went sparking down to his fingers. Even thinking about moving the arm brought on a wave of nausea.

He had no idea where he was, and by now he was so miserable he didn’t really care. Rutherford took his hat off with his good hand and put it on the pommel of the saddle. The rain plastered down his black hair, and dribbled down his cheeks into his beard. His eyes were cloudy, and filled with pain.

He thought about his situation for a few moments, and then with a tightening of his jaw, he made a decision. He tossed his head, spraying moisture over his shoulders, then brushed his good hand through his wet locks, and put his hat back on his head. Reaching down he patted the horse’s damp neck. Sorry, girl, but we gotta keep moving. He goaded the sorrel in the side with his spurs. The horse snorted her displeasure, and Rutherford groaned with pain as the horse began to splash ahead in the mud.

Finally the long night ended, but daylight never came as the lingering dark storm clouds swallowed the rising sun. The clouds, pregnant with rain, blocked the entire eastern slate gray sky making the road dim and dreary. A thin white fog hung over the frosted fields in the early morning cold.

The tired horse kept moving mechanically, automatically putting one hoof down after another. The tiredness of horse and man showed in the slow sucking of the horse’s hooves as she wearily lifted each hoof from the mud.

The rain soaked brown muck made the mare’s progress jerky and slow, hurting Rutherford with every step. His arm was now a place where demons plucked at his wound and then howled with laughter.

His fevered mind lurched about trying to forget his pain. He thought of home. Now that he was going back he realized how much he had missed the Piedmont. His mind caressed the majestic, soaring North Carolina Mountains, the green grass and the fruited trees in the spring and the blustery beginning of winter, soon bringing with it ice and snow; and the winter games to be played with friends.

Rutherford suddenly became aware of something familiar in his surroundings. He looked about him at the spectral desolation and shook his head sadly. Patting the mare’s neck and speaking softly to her, he said, There was a battle here. Yes, I recognize this place. This is Sayler’s Creek. This is where that damn Sheridan destroyed a fourth of our army and captured 6,000 of our men. He pointed to a copse of trees. And there, right over there is where the Yanks captured ol’ scrawny neck, Dick Ewell.

The countryside looked like a graveyard in a nightmare. Everywhere Rutherford looked, he saw a landscape of ruin and desolation. Where there had once been loving homes, and farms, only the chimneys remained. Sherman’s sentinels the populous called the still standing chimneys. Each remaining smokestack was surrounded by heaps of dark ashes.

Rutherford knew these homes had been victims of both marauding armies. Fences were torn up, used for firewood, and others were simply trampled over. The once fallow fields were flattened and empty. Here and there he could see sickly, untended patches of cotton and uprooted corn stalks. All the vegetable gardens are plucked clean. Any animal passing through here had better be carrying its own rations, Rutherford thought.

He knew his countrymen would be bitter at all the destruction in the South. He also knew that with all the civil disorder in the South, hunger and disease would follow. Rumor has it that gangs of Yankee and Southern deserters hiding in the mountains have joined together and are going around together, robbing and burning and killing.

Even though it hurt his arm, a strong uneasiness, brought on by his these thoughts, made Rutherford lift his horse to a trot. Field mice scattered out of the way of the pounding hooves as the mare gained her rhythm. The increased movements of the horse made the pain in his arm begin again in earnest.

Rutherford gritted his teeth, wanting to quickly leave this place, remembering all too vividly what had happened here at Sayler’s Creek, and even worse, the five days earlier when he was wounded at the battle of Five Forks…

Get a twist on ’em, boys

Chapter 2

March 31, 1865

General Warren pulled up at Union General Sheridan’s headquarters tent and got ready to dismount. Without warning a blue figure in the morning darkness appeared, his rifle at the ready.

Hold it right there, Sir. Give me a password or put your hands up!"

Password? What password? Put that damn gun away soldier. Don’t you know who I am?

No answer.

Damn it all, I’m General Warren here to see General Sheridan. I have a separate command and I don’t know your damn password.

Sorry, Sir, you’ll have to come with me.

Come with you? Warren spluttered.

The headquarters tent flap opened throwing a rectangle of light across the ground and onto the two adversaries.

Sheridan’s laugh broke the tension. It’s all right, Sergeant, the General has my personal invitation. I just forgot to give him the password. Dismount and come on in, Warren. 

Muttering a few obscenities, Warren slid down off his horse, handed the reins to the flustered guard, and followed Sheridan into the tent.

Pointing to a camp chair Sheridan moved to a small field table and picked up a map. He smiled. You have to admit my men are alert, Warren.

Warren angrily brushed imaginary dust off his uniform jacket. Too alert to suit me, Sheridan.

Sheridan lost his smile to a scowl. One is never too alert.

Warren didn’t answer. He looked closely at Sheridan as he opened the map.

Sheridan was short man, with extra long arms that hung down from his shoulders like a primordial simian. He had a bushy mustache and a thinning widow’s peak. A blustery, outspoken man, he was used to getting his way.

Sheridan may not be perfectly formed, Warren thought, but he knows how to fight. It took a man with his pluck and determination to finally get Jeb Stuart last year, at Yellow Tavern. And he certainly knows how to pick men who will pitch into the Rebs. Men like, Merritt, Gregg, Custer, Wilson, and Torbert. All good horsemen, and, more importantly, all first-rate leaders of men.

Sheridan smoothed the map and spread it out to the ends of the table. His black Irish eyes sparkled with excitement. Here’s the reason I got you up so early. Last night Grant and me were doing some scouting and we noticed something. Pickett has a couple of big holes in his defense. Sheridan laughed. He was last in his class at the point and this little oversight shows why.

Warren lost his annoyance and leaned forward with interest.

Sheridan thumped his forefinger on the map. Grant’s plan is simple, Warren: We’ll do a classical pincer action. I will go to the right, through one of the holes, leading one pincer, and you, General Warren will, when they move their men to the left to contain me, exploit the deserted flank with a left pincer. Then, like a hammer striking an anvil, we will shatter the whole Confederate line and capture the Southside Railroad. Sheridan thumped the table and laughed again. Maybe now you’ll be the hero of, not only Gettysburg, but Five Forks too.

But sometimes things don’t work out exactly as planned.

The Shad Bake

Chapter 3

April 1, 1865

It was the first of April when General Grant sent Sheridan, with an infantry force, on a wide end run to cut the Southside Railroad to Petersburg.

But Lee knew if Grant cut the Southside Railroad, Richmond would be lost. To avoid that he pulled Pickett’s infantry and Fitzhugh Lee’s cavalry out of line and sent them to Five Forks to block the Federal move.

Pickett got there just in the nick of time and after a pitched battle, with heavy losses on both sides, drove Sheridan back. The next day Sheridan did not attack, and Pickett thought the Union effort was over. He did not know Sheridan well.

The morning after the battle cavalry general, Thomas Rosser netted some shad in the Nottoway River. In a burst of generosity he sent an invitation to Pickett, and told him to bring his cavalry chief, General Fitzhugh Lee, to a good old-fashioned Shad Bake.

General Pickett, his long perfumed curls bouncing on his shoulders, pulled up in front of Fitzhugh Lee’s tent waving the invitation. Lee waved back and Pickett dismounted. Ho there, Fitzhugh, look what I got from Tom Rosser. 

The burly, bushy bearded nephew of