A Rainbow of Blood: The Union in Peril an Alternate History (38 page)

"Why, Wolseley, information? Look ahead of you, man. There is
the enemy. What more information do I need? But you will have noticed
how well the American cavalry has kept our smaller cavalry force at bay.
I do not think there is much more the Royal Guides can do now. I will commend Denison, of course. He has kept me fully informed of the enemy's position, strength, and movement."

"But, my lord, it is precisely the strength and ability of the enemy
cavalry that will blind us to any surprises."

Paulet waved him off. He took another look and said, "I think it is
time the mountain stopped moving toward Mohammed. Let him come
to us, as the story says."

Paulet was right. Hooker was advancing swiftly with nine thousand
men of XII Corps to relieve Kilpatrick's three thousand cavalrymen. It
did not take long for Paulet to study them in detail from a church steeple
in Claverack, dark blue columns breaking out into line and heading in a
directly toward Hudson. If Hooker pushed the British flank away from
the river port, Paulet would lose his base and have to retreat overland
toward Albany on foot. He took a moment to watch them move and observed, "Gentlemen, they are a ragged lot."

Wolseley's single eye saw more than Paulet's two. "Yes, my lord,
not particularly neat. They would be disqualified on that ground alone
on maneuver at Aldershot. But we are not at Aldershot. And do notice,
my lord, how swiftly they cover ground." 10

LONG BRIDGE GUARDPOST, WASHINGTON, D.C.,
9:32 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863

It was a scared body of men guarding the Washington end of the Long
Bridge -four guns and fifty infantry, all intent on the battle raging across
the river. The last thing they expected was the keening shriek of the
Rebel yell coming at them from the rear. They turned to see a wave of
men in butternut and brown coming at them with the bayonet. Scarcely a
shot was fired as they threw down their weapons. Colonel Cooke strode
among the guns as his Tar Heels tore away the barrier thrown across the
bridge's end. "Hurry, boys, hurry! General Lee is expecting us." In minutes, he was leading three of his four regiments across the bridge. He left
the fourth behind to hold the approaches.

The battle for Fort Runyon on the Virginia side was reaching its
climax as Cooke's thousand men were double-timing across the Long
Bridge through the shadows of the overhead trestle beams. The capture
of Fort Berry early that morning had allowed Lee, the master military engineer, to pick apart the intricate and layered forts and connecting para pets with a speed the defenders never thought possible. He had been
helped by the transfer of so many of the garrison's infantry to reinforce
Hooker and Sedgwick and repel the British in New York and Maine.
Now only one fort barred his access to the Long Bridge and his way into
Washington.

Fort Runyon was located astride the important junction of the
Washington-Alexandria and Columbia turnpikes, a half mile south of the
Long Bridge. It was the largest fort in the defenses of the capital, covered
12 acres and had a perimeter of 1,484 yards manned by a garrison of
2,100 and 21 guns. It was Washington's final defense, and it was putting
up a tough fight. Every assault had been repelled, despite a continuous
pounding by Lee's artillery. Even the heavier guns dragged from fallen
forts were not able to silence the garrison. The explosion of the Arsenal
had sent everyone's spirits soaring earlier, and the next assault had gone
in with renewed enthusiasm. Unfortunately, the garrison's spirit had not
been diminished by the cataclysmic display. And hanging hatefully in
the air behind the fort was one of those balloons that telegraphed the assembly for every assault.

A mile south of Runyon, Lee was pacing back and forth on the parapet of Fort Scott as he watched the survivors of the last assault fall back.
His staff noticed he was showing something more than his taste for a
good fight-nervousness that had never been there before. He found his
nearest aide and said, "Go to General Stuart and ask him where General
Meade and his army are. I must know."

Scarcely had the man galloped off when a voice from the fort's
observation tower yelled down. "General Lee! General Lee!" Everyone
looked up, and Lee took off his hat to show where he was. The Confederate signalman in the tower was pointing northeast. "General Lee, there's
a column coming across the bridge right fast. It's ours!"11

CLAVERACK CREEK, NEW YORK, 10:15 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863

Hooker threw his first division, commanded by Brig. Gen. John W.
Geary, against Paulet's right in the half mile of open ground between the
Becraft Hills south of Hudson and the orchards that straddled the creek.
Paulet had posted his Niagara Brigade here with one Canadian battalion
in the orchard. Horse artillery galloped up to unlimber and send their
shells across the creek. Then came the wave of infantry. Hooker rode up to the bank with his staff to watch the attack go in and wave the men on
with his hat. The men marched on in grim silence. They hardly cheered
anymore. They had seen too much. But that same experience had made
them veteran infantry. They knew their business, and cheering was for
amateurs. But here was Hooker, his blond hair shining in the sun, astride
his white charger, and they were impressed. Hooker noted a special eagerness in the five New York regiments of Col. David Ireland's brigade.

As he rode in front of his line, the colonel of the 25th Foot watched
the blue wave veer to the right of his line and head straight for the Canadian 19th Battalion. He was puzzled as their line broke up with groups
here and there going to ground wherever the earth wrinkled. The group
under cover would fire, and another group rushed forward. There were
too many to he light infantry. What was this attack by rushes? He grew
alarmed as the enemy's artillery concentrated on his men where they
stood on the northern bank of the creek. That was the point. He did not
see the Americans slipping through the orchards to get close to his Borderers. He never felt the bullet that went through his brain.

Just as the senior British officer on that side of the field slid lifeless from his horse, Geary seemed to lead a charmed life. For all of his
six foot and six inches and 260 pounds, the Union division commander
knew how to make the best use of ground to get close to an enemy without getting hurt. Geary's body seemed to attract lead, and his body wore
the scars of ten wounds from two wars. They were a cumulative lesson
he had taken to heart. A Mexican War veteran but not a regular Army
man, he had raised two Pennsylvania regiments and risen by merit to
command a good division. His timely reinforcement of Culp's Hill at
Gettysburg had saved the position. Now he was using the gently rolling
farmland to get his command as close as possible to the enemy without
having to cross an unnecessary inch of the beaten zone, that clear and
deadly space over which men had to advance while under fire. The average soldier heartily endorsed that approach, and in every theater of
the war had responded to the killing power of modern weapons with a
strong dose of applied common sense. Instead of attacking in tight ranks,
they rushed from cover to cover in small groups while others covered
them with fire. It was not a lesson the British had learned in the Crimea
or the Mutiny, much less in China.

Geary's regiments were working in pairs. One would rush forward
to the next fold while another from the edge of the previous position
would fire. To a parade ground soldier, it was hideously disjointed and
defied every sense of military order. It was also the voice of experience.
The Americans had too much experience of the killing range of their
rifled weapons. The British were firing by volleys ineffectually. Their
targets had gone to earth before the command to fire could be given. Yet
the aimed fire of the Americans from behind whatever shelter they could
find was dropping red-coated bodies as they stood in their ranks. Geary
had passed on Hooker's instructions to concentrate on the Canadians.
He understood at once that these glorified militiamen had not really soldiered as much as marauded through the Hudson Valley. Hooker had
said to him, "Give them a full dose of war, Geary. Don't let them learn
by little sips. Make them gag on it all at once. Peel them away from the
British."12

Col. David Ireland's brigade rose from its latest covered position
and with the shout of "Out! Out!" fired a volley and rushed forward.
The Canadian 19th Battalion opposite, already shredded by shell fire,
staggered back from the shock, almost every third man down. It was too
much for men whose battalion had only been formed that March to drill
together a scant eight days. They broke. The New Yorkers chased after
them, leaping into the creek and up the other bank, bayoneting every
man they caught before rounding up a hundred prisoners. Then Ireland
swung them around to roll up the Borderers. The commander of the
brigade reserve, 10th Battalion, the Royal Regiment of Toronto, brought
his men up smartly to cover the flank and walked right into Ireland's
charge. With better officers and more time together as a battalion, they
stood their ground. But Ireland's New York regiments had been worked
up into a rage at the burned towns they had marched through. "Out!
Out!" They shouted before tearing off a cartridge paper end with their
teeth. "Out! Out!" It was the same rage that came from the Saxon shield
wall as they shouted, "Out! Out!" to the Norman knights massing below
on Hastings Field. But this time the invader would have no lucky arrow
to win the battle. In fifteen minutes, half the Toronto men were lying
dead or wounded where they had stood, the survivors falling back onto
their Imperial battalion's flank, followed by shouts of, "Out! Out!"13

From his vantage point, Hooker was more than pleased at the collapse of the enemy flank. He hoped he would not have to wait long for
Paulet to take the bait and commit his reserve, the Guards. As soon as it
moved to the flank, he would hit with Brig. Gen. Alpheus S. Williams's
1st Division and collapse the other flank. By then Meagher and his XI
Corps should be coming down on their rear. Unfortunately, Meagher
would be delayed.

WASHINGTON NAVY YARD, WASHINGTON, D.C.,
10:10 Ann, OCTOBER 28, 1863

It took almost an hour for the wind to shift enough to place Lowe's
balloon over another British ship. No stouter ship ever flew the Union
Jack than HMS Spiteful. The terrifying destruction of Racer had only
egged her on. She came right up to the Navy Yard dock, her side wheels
foaming, firing directly into the Dahlgren battery. Her gun crews worked
with the speed and precision of steam piston arms, though the Dahlgren
shells had torn great holes in her and strewn the red-painted decks with
splinters and bodies. Her funnel had been shot off, leaving only a stump
that spread smoke over the deck instead of into the air above. She slowly
got the upper hand as Greyhound drew near to lend her guns to the fight.
Powerful as the American guns were, they were practically naked. There
had been no time to build proper earthworks to shelter them. Scanty
piles of bricks and timbers were no substitute at this range. One Dahlgren was dismounted by a 32-pounder's ball. Another crew was swept
away by the deck-mounted carronade. A wagon with powder charges
rushing up to the battery exploded from another hit, decimating the rest
of the gun crews and hurling bodies like rag dolls in every direction. The
blast threw the body of the Yard commander over his guns and into the
water only yards from Spiteful. Her gun crews rushed to the ship's sides
to raise a cheer.

Lowe and Cushing watched in horror as the battery died. They had
only two shells and the boxes of grenades left. Frantically, they tore open
the last two boxes. The lieutenant's hands raced over the first shell as he
prepared and lit it. In one fluid motion, the lieutenant rose and hung it
over the side to center it on the ship. Spiteful was directly below. He let
go. The two stared over the basket edge as the shell fell straight down to the ship. The seconds seemed to last forever as it fell. It was a perfect hit
on the quarterdeck between the guns. Then it just bounced over the side
to sink to the bottom, the river water racing through the mealed powder
and overtaking the slow flame.14

The two did not waste time on a "damn" but prepared the last
shell. Spiteful was steaming up to the dock now. Seconds mattered or she
would no longer be beneath the balloon. Spiteful's captain had seen the
shell bounced across his deck and knew he had to get his ship out of the
way. His Marines were shooting at the balloon and its crew. In record
time, Cushing had the shell suspended over the side of the basket. Lowe
held him by the belt as the lieutenant leaned over the side and extended
his arms to give him an extra foot. Down it went, sparks flying off its
burning fuse. It hit barely on the stern deck and bounced forward amidships in an arc that ended in the funnel's stump. Down it went into the
smoking opening.