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Chapter 9
July 3, 1863, 8:45 a.m.
Monterey Pass
Pennsylvania
Strangely, there was no pain, just a numbed shock that knocked the wind out of his lungs. There was darkness for a moment, and then he was looking up at green leaves, sunlight filtering down. A man knelt down by his side. John Hanson McNeill could barely see him; the sunlight behind him was blinding. He tried to breath and was not able to. He felt as if he were drowning. Then hands grabbed him under the shoulders. The man pulled him up. There was a terrible stab of pain now. The man eased him back down, sitting up against the side of a rock. His mind began to wander.
His scouts had spotted them just after dawn, on the road south of Fairfield. Not just a few riders foraging, but obviously several brigades of cavalry, followed by an almost infinite column of infantry. Union troops on a flank march. McNeill had grasped the gravity of the situation within seconds. This movement was not only aimed at the right flank of the army, but it looked like a planned sickle cut to ultimately penetrate deep into the rear area. He could not let that happen.
He had sent two men north and west to raise the alarm and bring reinforcements, but initially he was on his own. He had no more than ninety men. Irregulars, bushwhackers, whatever you wanted to call them. Armed with a hodgepodge of firearms, including a variety of old shotguns and hunting rifles. So far they had raided supply lines and attacked soft targets. That would change that day.
They holed up in and around the narrow pass as quickly as possible. Time was precious and the minutes they had before the first opponents arrived were used to roll stones and fell and relocate tree trunks.
The Union cavalry vanguard was formed by a regiment from Michigan. The dressed-up blue coats rode forward unsuspectingly as if on parade. McNeill let them get within a hundred yards before he gave the order to fire. In a split second the column turned into a chaotic heap. Well over a dozen men and many mounts were hit. People screamed, horses shied and curses rang out. Before order was restored, McNeill's men had reloaded. The second volley hit less enemies due to the unpredictably moving targets, but it served its purpose from a psychological point of view. The Michigan men streamed back.
They had come again just a few minutes later. This time fanned out in battle formation. They galloped up like ancient knights. The Confederate shotguns took a terrible toll on them and also this advance, as arrogant as McNeill had never seen it before, was thrown back.
After that, they had gotten smarter. They dismounted from their horses and proceeded in loose formation. As soon as they got within range again, they dropped to the ground behind bushes, trees and stones and began to return fire. This exchange asted long minutes and since the southerners had a height advantage, a stalemate developed. Until another enemy regiment appeared. McNeill had been able to make out another pennant on the right and was about to refuse his right flank when the bullet hit him in the chest.
Back in the present, he thought weakly that it was over. He could make out blue shadows approachim him and his small band. But suddenly the men around him began to cheer. And then he heard it. He heard hooves drumming almost like an earthquake. But the noises did not come from in front, but from behind him. Finally his eyes sharpened and he recognized the man at his side as his son and second-in-command. Jesse Cunningham McNeill yelled wide-eyed "Imboden is coming".
Reassurance washed over the older man's body. He grasped the hilt of his sword and pulled it close to his heart. Now I can rest in peace, he thought as he took his last breath.
Chapter 9
July 3, 1863, 8:45 a.m.
Monterey Pass
Pennsylvania
Strangely, there was no pain, just a numbed shock that knocked the wind out of his lungs. There was darkness for a moment, and then he was looking up at green leaves, sunlight filtering down. A man knelt down by his side. John Hanson McNeill could barely see him; the sunlight behind him was blinding. He tried to breath and was not able to. He felt as if he were drowning. Then hands grabbed him under the shoulders. The man pulled him up. There was a terrible stab of pain now. The man eased him back down, sitting up against the side of a rock. His mind began to wander.
His scouts had spotted them just after dawn, on the road south of Fairfield. Not just a few riders foraging, but obviously several brigades of cavalry, followed by an almost infinite column of infantry. Union troops on a flank march. McNeill had grasped the gravity of the situation within seconds. This movement was not only aimed at the right flank of the army, but it looked like a planned sickle cut to ultimately penetrate deep into the rear area. He could not let that happen.
He had sent two men north and west to raise the alarm and bring reinforcements, but initially he was on his own. He had no more than ninety men. Irregulars, bushwhackers, whatever you wanted to call them. Armed with a hodgepodge of firearms, including a variety of old shotguns and hunting rifles. So far they had raided supply lines and attacked soft targets. That would change that day.
They holed up in and around the narrow pass as quickly as possible. Time was precious and the minutes they had before the first opponents arrived were used to roll stones and fell and relocate tree trunks.
The Union cavalry vanguard was formed by a regiment from Michigan. The dressed-up blue coats rode forward unsuspectingly as if on parade. McNeill let them get within a hundred yards before he gave the order to fire. In a split second the column turned into a chaotic heap. Well over a dozen men and many mounts were hit. People screamed, horses shied and curses rang out. Before order was restored, McNeill's men had reloaded. The second volley hit less enemies due to the unpredictably moving targets, but it served its purpose from a psychological point of view. The Michigan men streamed back.
They had come again just a few minutes later. This time fanned out in battle formation. They galloped up like ancient knights. The Confederate shotguns took a terrible toll on them and also this advance, as arrogant as McNeill had never seen it before, was thrown back.
After that, they had gotten smarter. They dismounted from their horses and proceeded in loose formation. As soon as they got within range again, they dropped to the ground behind bushes, trees and stones and began to return fire. This exchange asted long minutes and since the southerners had a height advantage, a stalemate developed. Until another enemy regiment appeared. McNeill had been able to make out another pennant on the right and was about to refuse his right flank when the bullet hit him in the chest.
Back in the present, he thought weakly that it was over. He could make out blue shadows approachim him and his small band. But suddenly the men around him began to cheer. And then he heard it. He heard hooves drumming almost like an earthquake. But the noises did not come from in front, but from behind him. Finally his eyes sharpened and he recognized the man at his side as his son and second-in-command. Jesse Cunningham McNeill yelled wide-eyed "Imboden is coming".
Reassurance washed over the older man's body. He grasped the hilt of his sword and pulled it close to his heart. Now I can rest in peace, he thought as he took his last breath.
- Lothar
- Word Count: 670