O'hara's Choice - Leon Uris [3]
The guns and picket line around Jerome House Hill seemed in right fair position overlooking the creek.
Behind them, the First Philadelphia could hear hurrahs echoing from the onlookers.
Hurrah! Hurrah! echoed up the valley and the gap.
Hurrah! Hurrah!
Prichard’s Inn
Master Gunnery Sergeant Kunkle’s reverie faded to a wisp. Mr. Prichard stirred the embers of the fire, added a pair of logs, and prepared the bar and tables for evening drink and fare. As the grandfather clock chimed, the innkeeper adjusted the cuckoo clock behind the bar then drew a couple tankards of ale and came to the fireplace in hopes of some conversation.
“It’s early yet. Your mates will be along.”
The Gunny nodded in thanks for the ale.
“A reunion? Celebration?” Mr. Prichard pressed.
“Bull Run,” Kunkle grunted.
“Bull Run, indeed! I was just ten years old. This was my old man’s place then. I see you’ve known glory.”
“If Bull Run be glory, then fuck glory.”
* * *
As Wally Kunkle drummed the First Philadelphia onto Jerome House Hill, they could hear the popping of musket fire. A distant cheer from the spectators’ vantage point behind them drifted past.
Lieutenant Merriman set up a defensive picket line peering down at the creek and stone bridge as the army artillery unhitched and set up a battery of cannons. If the Rebs showed up and made an attempt to cross, the First Philadelphia would repulse them, rise and lead the Marine battalion over the bridge, secure it, get the artillery across, and help open the road to Richmond.
That was the plan.
Bursts of Rebel cannon stepped up to the creek, then up the hillock to Jerome House.
The federal artillery responded, and the bright day turned an instant gray and the air shrieked with shells going out and shells coming in. The sound became unbearable despite the wads of cotton stuffed in the soldiers’ ears.
The Confederates were on target first with a violent shaking of the earth. Wally Kunkle was struck by a flying object that smashed him to the ground and sent him crawling on all fours in search of his drum. He screamed as he saw the missile that had struck him was Lieutenant Merriman’s leg.
It shocked him from his fear as he crawled to the officer, took off Merriman’s belt, and made a tourniquet on his stump.
Paddy O’Hara knelt beside them and stared at the sheet-white fast-dying officer.
“Can you hear me, sir?”
“Aye,” Merriman croaked.
“They got two of the cannons and the artillery officer. We’ve lost both sergeants!”
Another burst and Wally and Paddy threw themselves atop the lieutenant.
“Shit, man!” Paddy yelled. “Some of our people are breaking rank!”
Merriman gasped out, “We’re on the far flank, O’Hara! We have to hold this hill or they can break through to the turnpike!” Then he said no more.
“I need an officer! I need a sergeant!”
Wally saw his smashed-up drum and gagged next to the bloody lieutenant’s body.
“I’m it, Boilerplate. Can you get useful?” Paddy yelled.
“Aye . . . aye . . .”
“All right now. Crawl about, keep low. Pick up every musket and powder horn you can find and carry them to the big boulder behind the tree! Go!”
Paddy took command, shoring up his picket line. There were plenty of guns to be found because, to his horror, O’Hara had seen the Union troops scatter and throw down their muskets.
The balance of the Marines were caught in a draw alongside Jerome House Hill. Instead of digging in, they wavered and some broke off.
A cannonade blast fell within scratching distance and choking smoke blotted out the hill. When it passed over, most of the Marines were in flight. Paddy took Lieutenant Merriman’s saber, got behind the First Philadelphia, and threatened them to stand fast. He slashed the head of a fleeing coward.
Paddy allowed himself a brief smile as he saw Wally Kunkle dive behind the big rock with four or five muskets in his arms and load them with powder.
Rebel cannon hit close again. Wally Kunkle choked on the dust