The Deadlier Bruise

At a few minutes after four on the morning of August 7, 1864, Trooper Robert Gibboney of the irregularly organized brigade known as McCausland's Cavalry pitched abruptly out of his blanket roll, suddenly and completely awake. A moment before he had been sleeping dreamlessly, his body so exhausted from weeks of hard riding that he had been almost unaware of the rocky ground beneath him; now every nerve and muscle strained against the darkness. He did not know what had awakened him; apparently it had left the others undisturbed. Clumped together beneath the thick willow trees that lined the riverbank, they slept on, silent, oblivious, untroubled.

His head against a tree trunk, Robert Gibboney made, for a moment, no further move. Instead he waited, only his eyes in motion, for a sound, a Hash, the snapping of a twig, the swift passage of a dark form across the dim light from the east; three years of trooping had taught him what to expect. But none of them came. Breathing heavily, he turned slightly upon his elbow and took his watch from the pocket of his vest. Sunrise was still more than an hour away. His other hand relaxed slowly, and as it did he realized that in his sudden fear he had grasped, he supposed instinctively, the butt of his pistol. Now, his face tight and unsmiling, he let it go.

From somewhere far away he heard the crowing of a cock. Across the river, above the little town of Moorefield, there were streaks against the cloudy sky. Bradley Johnson's brigade, put for this mission under McCausland's command, was bivouacked against the Potomac there, sleeping silently, too, he supposed. Though in the bad light he could not make them out, he could see here and there the glow of a fire where the sentries kept their watch; and they, he knew, slept only at their peril. Breathing more easily than before, still he waited, and wondered where the Yankees were.

For a week now it had been the only question. The tide of Early's Valley sweep had been turned abruptly, perhaps inevitably, (continued on page 124)Deadlier Bruise(continued from page 107) at the gates of Washington, and since then, excepting Chambersburg, his life and the life of McCausland's Cavalry had been dedicated merely to escape. High thoughts of vengeance and retribution, victory and glory, were the self-indulgent daydreams of the past. His hatred for the Federals, new and sharpening as he galloped north, seemed during the days of flight to have gone blunt again, to have lost its meaning forever, as the possibility of destruction and death assumed awful reality for the first time.

After Westgate and Lexington, Staunton and Harrisonburg, his hunger for the sharp satisfaction of revenge had been keen and, he thought, insatiable, and at Back Creek and North Mountain, at Hainesville, Monocacy and Rockville, he had ridden and fought with spirit and resolution; but when Early elected, the parapets of the Washington defenses within his grasp, to turn aside and withdraw toward Martinsburg, a sudden weary indifference to it all had entered Robert Gibboney's mind and stayed there. He could not explain it; it was unreasoning and bewildering and, in its effect, enervating; but after Chambersburg he knew he could never care deeply again.

They had entered the sleeping Pennsylvania town before dawn, their long ride northward completely the surprise intended, and by six the town officials were standing before them to hear McCausland's terms. All courtesy, all iron, he had delivered Early's demand: As indemnification for the sack of Confederate homes by Union troops, Chambersburg must pay over to McCausland the sum of $100,000 in gold or, if gold were unobtainable, $500,000 in greenbacks, and must do so at once; else be put to the torch. Standing aside in the brightening street, Robert Gibboney had listened apathetically as the councilmen gave their indignant refusal; their own troops were nearby, they said; McCausland would hang. At nine the order was issued: Burn the town. Pistol in hand, Robert Gibboney himself touched off two Yankee homes a block north of the business district, while their owners stood weeping at the curb, their families huddled miserably about them, imploring his mercy. He had tried to tell himself he felt none, that what the Yankees had done to Westgate he could do to Chambersburg, that orders were orders, that his hands trembled only in symptom of reaction to the strain of the raid itself; but the faces of the stricken Yankees had become confused, inexplicably, with the face of his father, the look of Chambersburg at dawn with the look of Westgate, and an hour afterward, trotting southward toward Cumberland, he had lurched suddenly across his saddle and vomited.

The days following had been all flight. Hotly pursuing, Averell's Cavalry had dogged and deviled their escape; one road after another had closed before them. Struggling cannily to elude the Yankee net, McCausland had led them away from trap after trap as they struck south and west across Hampshire and Hardy counties for the mountains; but every day the pickets reported blue coats at their rear. The mountains meant safety, but the mountains still lay ahead.

Across those merciless days Robert Gibboney had ridden blindly, automatically, falling back for his survival on responses learned by long exercise in the three years of make-believe war in West Virginia. He knew some dreaded knowledge was clouding his mind, was paralyzing his capacity for action, yet he could not say what had happened to him; he could not form the words that would express his certain loss. He knew only that Chambersburg had left a wound on his heart that nothing could heal.

And now, afraid and ashamed, he lay awake.

He heard nothing; he saw nothing. A gentle shift in the cool morning breeze rippled across the bivouac. Around him the men's chests rose and fell soundlessly to their breathing, and here and there, against the sudden chill, a trooper rolled deeper into the warmth of his blanket. Watching them knowing to what strength they could muster them-selves if called to, Robert Gibboney relaxed slightly and thought again of Westgate; and as his eyes swept back he saw the Yankee.

He did not wait to see another. Instead he fell with the same motion to the ground, where, rolling downward, away from the river, he buried his cheek against the damp rotten leaves and groped wildly for his pistol. He was on his side now, the almost imperceptible rise of ground on which he had lain his only cover from the Yankee's fire a few yards distant, and as at last his fingers touched the hardwood butt he made his first choking sound.

"Yankees!" he muttered hoarsely, and continued to roll.

His cry brought the huddled troopers to sluggish, turgid life, gray leaden creatures struggling vainly to free themselves from the coils of sleep and immobility and the twisted, clumsy burden of their blankets; but, almost simultaneous with his voice, the crack of musketry broke the silence, and about him Robert Gibboney saw with disbelief the sleepers, now arising, now go down. Rolling still, he felt the hot blood cross his cheek and hands as one and then another fell beside him, and finally he bumped against a heavy form and stopped. Mouth dry, hands numb, he raised his eyes.

They were surrounded. He saw so at a glance; or perhaps his senses had realized the fact before his eyes perceived the evidence. The ring of blue coats was unbroken, and from it, caps tilted, rifles raised, the Yankees were pouring a steady volley of fire into the lumpy circle of the bivouac. He knew without having to look that already most of his companions were dead or dying; he could hear them falling, groaning, sobbing, retching, above and behind him. One body lay in crazy disarray before his face; another pinned his legs. Was it his fault? Had his cry wiped out the chance of surrender? The clatter of rifle fire continued; he waited for the end. No matter, no matter: McCausland's Cavalry was wiped out; the make-believe was over.

But the thought, expressed, meant nothing. He wanted to live, not die, to escape, not lie here awaiting the inevitable searing puncture of the first Yankee bullet; and beside that fact all other facts -- McCausland's Cavalry, the Confederate Army, the Confederacy itself -- seemed as remote and as insignificant as so many stars in the sky. What were they to him? What did they matter when his life hung by so thin a thread? How could they? He dug his fingers deeper into the molten soil, rich bloody soil, and buried his face in the compost. If he could lower himself but an inch more . . .

The firing ceased. He heard the order, heard the quiet swearing of Yankee voices, heard the click and clang of hammer, trigger, ramrod going still. "That's the lot of them," someone said, "move off," and feet shuffled, voices rose and fell and died away, and in a moment all was still again. Here and there he heard a moan, but nothing more. A single shot echoed from across the river; that was all. The ambush was over.

But he was untouched, unwounded; he had escaped alive. That was the wonder, that was the miracle; and for a long time, his eyes still tightly closed, he hugged the earth, unmoving, hardly breathing, in paralyzed half-disbelief at his inexplicable salvation. Soon, he knew, he would have to think of his fallen companions, of the cold and startling, the mean and unmerciful deaths they had met here at the end of nowhere; but not now. Now, warm despite the morning chill, he listened in amazement to the beating of his heart: he would live to see his grandchildren, live to be a hundred. The rich, ripe smell of earth had never been so sharp.

And yet he knew he was still not altogether in the clear. The Yankees were (continued on page 188)Deadlier Bruise(continued from page 124) gone, but the Yankees would return: even they would bury the dead. How soon? How long had he? He could not know; he could not guess. Wait a while, he told himself; wait and see.

He waited: he lay still: he dared not move. Perhaps an hour passed; perhaps it was only a few minutes. He could not tell; his sense of time had vanished; he was afraid to lift his arm to find his watch. Had the Yankees left a silent sentry to guard their rubble? He heard nothing but the caw of a crow. Slowly, slowly, he raised his head.

There was no one in sight, at least no one alive; but as he turned he saw for the first time the destruction that before he had only felt. His stomach turned over. The bodies of troopers lay everywhere, sprawling and splayfooted, in all stages of dress and undress, in all possible positions. Across the clump the face of a Washington College classmate stared at him jawfallen, dead eyes glittering in the sunlight. Obscenely dead, Robert Gibboney thought: a sergeant straddled his feet, pistol half out of his holster, face gone. Bloody blankets, rumpled and perforated, littered the ground. Bits of paper, touched by the breeze, fluttered from body to body. Light twinkled on a ring, a chain. The air reeked. Two buzzards circled overhead. Robert Gibboney retched.

Guts aching, stomach dry, at last he was done. He gasped and pushed himself to his knees. Hearing nothing, seeing nothing, he began to crawl forward. A thick grove of trees, their trunks tangled and matted with underbrush, stood perhaps 50 yards away, across a meadow. He clawed his way over the hardening body of his corporal and toppled again to the ground. For a long time he lay motionless, waiting for a shot, but when none came he pushed himself forward once more. His heart was pounding, his chest heaving, and there was a burning, bitter taste in his mouth; his throat was raw. Inch by inch he crawled on, stopping dead every foot or so. His hearing had never been so keen: the rustle of a bird's wing roared in his ears. He passed the last body, and as his fingers touched the moist thick grass tears bubbled into his eyes.

Hope higher now, he began to move more rapidly across the sunny meadow. The tall grass hid his head and back as he snaked forward, elbow over elbow, and with each foot that passed the trees ahead loomed larger. His holster cracked against his groin but without breaking his stride he swung it behind his back and scrambled on. If he could reach the woods he would live: survival was suddenly that simple. He had no other thought.

Somewhere behind him he thought he heard a voice, but he did not stop and he did not turn. The meadow ended, abruptly, in a deep muddy gully. He slid down its side and lay still. He heard nothing more. Waiting, he listened for a minute; for five; for 10. When his breathing had begun at last to slow he turned onto his back and looked up at the sky. The sun was almost directly overhead; he could not believe so long a time had passed. He raised his hands; they were bloody and caked with dirt, but he felt nothing. He dropped them and turned again upon his stomach. He took a deep breath and started up the opposite bank. He slipped halfway up, but, catching himself against a giant root protruding from the clay, he tightened his grip, lifting himself again, and with a light vault cleared the top and tumbled into the underbrush. Thorns gashed his cheek and hands as he sank to the ground, but he was too weak and too tired even to push them aside. Eyes closed, body limp, he lay as he had fallen.

When he opened his eyes again the light had begun to fade. For a moment he feared he had slept the day away, but when he turned his head he realized that the thick foliage just above him was cutting out the light. It was late afternoon: he could see that. What else? He raised himself against a trunk. The knees of his breeches were gone and his elbows were raw: his back ached and his head was pounding: when he touched his face his fingers came away bloody. But as he lay looking at the sky, at the treetops, as he smelled the clean country air and listened to the early-evening chatter of the birds, he knew his pain meant nothing.

For a time, savoring his escape, he did not move. A cowbell tinkled nearby, a dog barked: but he hardly heard them. He felt certain he could have found no safer place to hide, for from only a foot or two away he would be, almost surely, invisible behind the thick growth beneath the trees. He need only wait for nightfall to make his freedom complete. Then, country boy and woodsman that he was, he would head hard for the mountains (there, the lovely blue line in the distance; only a few easy miles) and follow them south toward Westgate. He still had his pistol and knife and could live off the land if need be: here and there he could rest at farms: he had only the Yankees to fear, and where were they now? Long gone, surely: headed back east, where the fighting was, Breathing easy, he closed his eyes again: he was sleepy still, his body wanted rest, he would need his strength tonight...

His body stiffened. Something had jingled. He listened. A horse neighed, Another. A man spoke, his voice heavy but his words inaudible. Robert Gibboney waited, completely awake. Behind him, along the base of the gully into which, only hours before, he had fallen, he heard horses' hoofs. He turned slowly, clutching the ground. A Yankee trooper rode easily past: then another; a third, a fourth, a fifth. They were only inches away, he could almost have touched them, and as they passed and disappeared from his view he felt his heart skip a beat. The clop of hoof on clay ended; a moment passed: then he heard the brush crackle as the horses entered the woods. "Dismount," someone said, and Robert Gibboney listened, blood cold, as spurs tinkled and boots touched the ground.

What should he do? What could he? Frozen, he waited: and as he did the footsteps, then the voices, turned his way. Had they seen him? He did not think so: but since in a moment or two they were bound to walk across his hideaway, it hardly mattered. He was trapped: he must run: if he waited he was lost.

He rolled back toward the gully. The snapping of the brush beneath him rattled like rifle fire, but he heard no cry from the Yankees (how could they fail to hear him?) and when he reached the bank continued down the side and into the ditch. He hit the bottom and without stopping scrambled to a kneeling position. He saw no one, heard nothing beyond the steps in the brush to his left. Hunched over, he reached behind him and withdrew his pistol. He checked it quickly; it was still loaded. He took it in his right hand and set off, running low, in the direction of the horses. Perhaps the bank would hide him: perhaps he could steal a mount while the Yankees' backs were turned; perhaps... Yes: and if not?

Twenty yards down the gully a rough timber road opened into the woods to his left (the woods he had thought so safe!), and as he ran into the open he saw the horses, five of them, tied to a tree. He threw a quick glance across his left shoulder and, seeing no one, sprinted across the road and into the clearing. In another moment he would have a horse; in two he would be on his way: an hour from now he would be miles from Moorefield, perhaps in the mountains, turned south, turned for Westgate. One of the horses whinnied and shied as he raced past, but he lunged for the tangled reins and with a twist of his wrist set them free. He caught one pair, secured them, and set his foot to the stirrup: but the horse backed suddenly, nervous at the haste it had felt in his touch, and as he hopped along to follow it a Yankee soldier darted out of the woods to his left.

Robert Gibboney spun and fell to the dirt automatically, pistol rising before his face, and as his sights came up the Yankee lurched to a halt a yard or less away, his eyes just above the barrel. For Robert Gibboney, suddenly, time seemed to stop: it was the longest moment through which he had ever lived: and in that fraction of a second he saw everything himself, the Yankee, the lunacy through which they both were passing, through which, unavoidably now, they both must pass. The Yankee could have been no older than himself; indeed they might have been brothers, twins, for they were of a height and weight, a color and a complexion: and as their eyes met across the pistol Robert Gibboney saw with terrified recognition that the fear on the other's face was his own fear, the desire to live his own desire. Every second of his 22 years had led to this one: he knew it was the moment of his life: and as he stared into the other's whitening face he knew, too, with sudden certainty, that he must not kill the Yankee. Nothing would justify that, nothing could: not fear, not self-protection, not principle, not politics. The simplicity of his vision was terrible: The Yankee's life was as sacred as his own, his body, his hope and his fear as real: and no war, whatever its cause, could alter that. Perhaps, in West Virginia, in the Valley, he had killed before (at rille range who ever knew?), but he had never seen his enemy, never seen his face, never seen him fall. This enemy, now, here, before him, was a man, not a principle: a man like himself: indeed this enemy was himself. To Robert Gibboney, at that instant, no logic had ever been so inevitable: If the war were just, then killing this enemy must be just as well: if killing this enemy were wrong, then the war itself must be wrong, Everything -- the war, living, all life itself -- seemed suddenly that clear, that simple: He must not kill the Yankee: and knowing so he squeezed the trigger and saw the Yankee's face fall away.

It seemed an eternity before he heard the report and felt the pistol kick: it seemed another before the Yankee hit the ground: a sodden lump of utter death. Paralyzed, immobile in the cloud of acrid blue smoke surrounding him. Robert Gibboney stared at the body. Yet there was nothing to see: there was only a pile of bloody blue cloth. Where was the Yankee now? He had no name: he had made no sound; he was simply gone, simply dead, simply dead by Robert Gibboney's hand, the hand that trembled as it dropped the pistol. The moment and the act consuming it had stood out of time: now time resumed its course and Robert Gibboney knew: Evil was not inflicted on man: it was what man did himself. Knowing his sin he had proceeded to its instant commission. What good were his principles now? He stood, slowly, and as the rest of the Yankees ran out of the wood he lifted his hands in surrender.