A Rainbow of Blood: The Union in Peril an Alternate History (44 page)

At that moment, Captain Brown rode up, immensely relieved at his
good luck that the Dandies had been recalled from their attack. But it
was a case of "from the frying pan into the fire," for Paulet noticed him
and said, "Brown, ride after Denison and tell him to strike them in the
flank." For his part, Brown was not impressed with the order and had
begun to turn a light shade of green under his thick sideburns as he saw
the mass of American cavalry trotting toward the little Canadian band.
Try as he might, no excuse would pop into his head, and he came to the
awful conclusion that he might actually have to ride down into that. It
only took a long, puzzled look from Paulet for him to make up his mind
to actually obey his orders. Hopefully, he thought as he spurred his charger down the hill, something might turn up.

THE LONG BRIDGE, WASHINGTON, D.C., 11:40 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863

Lincoln stared out the jagged hole in the wall, past the defenders, and
down the Long Bridge to the column of men rushing across. He had never seen Confederate battle flags so close, except as trophies. But in
the hands of their bearers, the effect was entirely different. The Army of
Northern Virginia, he had come to believe, was a pure embodiment of
American valor in its own way -more the pity, for in this characteristic
there was no North or South.

He could make out a man on a black horse at their head. Brave man.
Why wasn't Sharpe firing, he wondered. They were halfway across. He
found himself holding his breath. He glanced at the men with him. Each
was similarly transfixed by the sight. Closer and closer they came, a glittering hedge of bayonets, held at left shoulder arms, and he could see
the man and horse more clearly. His magnificent, spirited black seemed
to dance as it trotted, the perfect match to the man who rode it. Brave
horse, brave man.

Brig. Gen. John B. Gordon did not know he had such an exalted observer. If he had, he would have saluted with his sword, honor to honor.
But now he had only time for the barricade visible at the bridge end and
the sight of the half-finished Capitol dome on its hill. That dome meant
the end of this unending river of blood. He turned back in his saddle and
pointed with his sword, "Come on, Georgia! Home is just beyond that
dome!" The men had caught the excitement of the moment as well. A
roar rose up from the lead regiments.

They had given the command for their own ruin. At that moment,
Sharpe shouted, "Fire!" The click-bang, click-bang, click-bang of the
turning crank handles melted into a machine staccato as the eleven coffee mill guns poured their fire down the bridge.

CLAVERACK, NEW YORK, 12:05 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863

Wolseley had never believed that the Grenadier Guards could move as
fast as Preston led them to throw themselves across the army's rear in a
double line. The Chasseurs Canadiens followed to link up on their right.
But for all that speed, it was Denison's gallant hand that gave them those
extra minutes to get in line. That and the trains.

The sight of the enemy trains, hundreds of wagons strung out in the
open along the road to Hudson, was too much for Kilpatrick to resist; he
turned Davies's brigade on it. The commissaries, quartermasters, and
Canadian train guards never had a chance. Saber and the .44 Colt pistol
killed and killed as the cavalrymen hunted amid the wagons and lim hers. Panicked teamsters whipped their horses to escape down the road
but were shot or sabered out of their seats as their wagons careened on
to crash into each other. Hundreds surrendered or fled down the road
toward the bridge over the northern arm of Claverack Creek. A few ran
south to run through the silent ranks of the Guards.

Paulet and his officers watched in shock as the cavalry swarmed the
trains. Denison's cavalry had been too far away to intervene. But they
were close enough for Denison to launch them in the path of Custer's
Wolverines, who were coming forward in column of regiments-1st, 6th,
and 7th Michigan, and 1st Vermont. It was three to one. From Paulet's
staff came murmurs of, "Brave fellows," and "Good luck, Canada," from
the British officers. The Canadians could not speak; their hearts were in
their mouths.19

As obedient as horses are, they will not run into each other on purpose, but when hundreds of horses attempt to occupy the same space at
a gallop, awful things happen.20 Scores of animals, despite their frantic
attempts to swerve, collided, throwing their riders into a kicking, flailing equine brawl as the Canadians and the leading 1st Michigan melted
into each other. The fighting became hundreds of running duels as man
sought out man with saber or pistol. Two such were Denison and Custer.
The American, with his flowing blond hair and red bandana, drew the
eye. Their sabers locked as they hacked, parried, and thrust at each other.
Then the 6th Michigan crashed into the melee. The last two regiments
swung wide on either side to come in behind.

Paulet and his staff watched in horror as the trap began to close.
No one had paid attention to the lone rider dashing toward the fray, but
seconds before the two wings of the American cavalry joined, that rider
sped through the gap. Someone pointed him out by his scarlet jacket.
"By God, it's young Geoff!" Paulet shouted. One American had raced
ahead to intercept him, but Brown's charger rode him down. Then he
disappeared into the swirling melee.

From Paulet's hill, the nickeled helmets of the Royal Guides disappeared from view one by one in the swirling mass of horses. Inside the
chaos, the two commanders had been swept away from their duel by
tide of the 6th Michigan. Three of the Wolverines closed on Denison. He
thrust his saber into one man's throat and hacked the second out of his saddle, but the third drove his saber into Denison's side. He pulled it out
to deliver the killing stroke as Denison sagged forward over his horse's
neck. But the trooper screamed as his forearms flew off, slashed through
by one of the last of the Royal Guides. Now the remaining four circled
their wounded chief, fighting off attack after attack, like heroes on the
plains of Troy defending a wounded chieftain. And one by one, they fell
around him .21

From a distance, none of this was apparent. All eyes were on
Brown's scarlet figure darting through the dark blue mass of the American cavalry. They were too far away to see that he artfully dodged
through the enemy, who was startled to see a lone Englishman in their
midst. It was a supreme demonstration of horsemanship that he managed to ride through so many of the enemy without coming within saber's length of a single one. Of course, he did not hear the cheering from
Paulet and his staff, especially loud when he passed through the last of
the Americans and galloped off into the woods. Thus, a new legend of
the British Army was horn-"The Ride of the Gallant Geoff," a poem to
he written by Alfred Lord Tennyson himself and memorized by generations of British schoolboys.22

What Paulet could not see was the violent argument Davies and
Custer were now having with Kilpatrick. They were opposed to continuing the attack on horseback against unbroken infantry. Kilpatrick finally
ordered them back to their commands. After a few minutes, the mass
of twenty-five hundred cavalry began to move forward at a trot. The
artillery opened the show by sending shell to burst into them, but they
might as well have been trying to stop a stampede. The cavalry picked
up speed, the sound of their approach rising like the roar of an oncoming
flood. In their path, the Grenadier Guards stood stock still, an example
the Chasseurs did not quite attain.

Five hundred yards, and the Guards did not move; four hundred
yards; three hundred yards, and still the Guards stood like statues.
The ranks of the Chasseurs rippled with nervousness. At one hundred
yards, the French broke with cries of "Sauve qui peut!" (Save yourselves!)
and fled to the safety of the orchards to the rear. Preston sneered to an
aide, "Now I'm sure that is the only time on a battlefield when that
phrase has NOT been to Her Majesty's advantage." Fifty yards. Thirty.
Twenty. Ten.

A sheet of flame flared from the Guards, and the first rank of horses
and men collapsed in a bloody tangle of kicking hooves and mangled
bodies. A second sheet of flame brought the next rank to ruin. The press
of the rear ranks piled into the dead and dying, unable to get through or
come to a complete stop. As the rattle of ramrods came from the second
rank, the first had shouldered their muskets and aimed. "Fire!" Another
volley struck the milling mass of horses and men. The noise of screaming
horses and wounded men being trampled filled the minute between each
volley. Custer blessed the Guardsman who shot Kilpatrick out of the
saddle to end the folly.

ON THE ROAD BETWEEN STOTTVILLE AND HUDSON, NEW YORK,
12:20 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863

Meagher pushed his corps south along the road to Hudson. It was only
three miles from Stottville, but it might as well have been as far as Dublin as long as the British 2nd Division was willing to fight it out. The
odds had been even, but only the loss of their artillery and the exhaustion of their ammunition had forced the redcoats to withdraw back up
the rail line. The rumble of guns to the south drew Meagher on, riding
up and down the ranks, imploring his men to keep up the pace. For the
men, who should have been exhausted by the desperate fight they had
just had, the sound of the guns was a magnet, and they needed little
coaxing.

The column flowed to the crossroads between Hudson and Claverack and immediately intercepted survivors of the British train. Meagher
sent one regiment with the prisoners to secure the town, and headed east
with the main column, the 2nd New York Cavalry in the lead. They had
barely ridden over the Claverack Creek Bridge when they ran into the
detritus of Kilpatrick's charge. Custer, now in command of the wrecked
cavalry division, met Meagher there.

"By God, I told that damned fool that we needed infantry. Or we
should have dismounted to fight on foot and come through the orchards
and woods. He wouldn't listen and had to have his glory. Damn him and
his ambition."

Meagher leaned over to take Custer by the shoulder. "That milk is
spilled, General. Get your men together to support me as I go in."23

THE LONG BRIDGE, WASHINGTON, D.C., 12:30 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863

The Georgians never got beyond the point on the bridge where Gordon
and his black went down. The bridge had been wide enough for two regiments, four men abreast. However, the bodies piled up to build a barricade of the dead and wounded as the coffee mill guns chattered away.
The four cannons at the barricade fired solid shot through the packed,
stationary mass, tearing hideous paths that spewed fountains of blood
and body parts. All the while, the riflemen of the 120th fired diagonally
from the riverbanks into the side of the column. The Confederates in
front could not move back for the press on them from the rear. They just
packed tighter as the bullets plunged into them.

Lincoln leaned over and lowered his head into his hands.

HOOKER'S HEADQUARTERS, OUTSIDE CLAVERACK, NEW YORK,
12:43 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863

Hooker was more than desperate. XII Corps had been fought out and
was barely holding on. He could hear the fighting from beyond Claverack and see the smoke, but he had no idea what it meant. Was it Kilpatrick or Meagher or both? His hopes had soared when the noise and
smoke had risen in the British rear. Then those hopes had crashed when
the noise died out and cheers had rippled up and down the enemy's
ranks.

An aide tugged at his sleeve and pointed to the rear and the head
of a small column double-timing down the road. He was startled to recognize the old-fashioned gray swallowtail coats, white trousers, and tall,
black shakos that he had not worn since he had been commissioned in
the Class of 1837. The sight triggered a flood of memories of his youth
in the Corps, a time when the world was new and the future bright. For
a moment, it almost seemed that he was a young man waiting in those
ranks again.

An officer walked ahead. He stopped by some of the walking
wounded on the road who pointed up to him. Hooker spurred his horse
over and recognized Lieutenant Colonel Hardenburgh. The 20th had
been part of the Army of the Potomac's provost guard when Hooker had
been in command, and for that reason, its officers were much around
headquarters. He was glad of a familiar and reliable face. Sharpe had
wired Hooker in New York City that the 20th was on the way, but he never thought they would arrive in time. Hardenhurgh reported that the
20th was behind them, slowed by enemy cavalry.

Hooker thanked him and rode over to the cadets, who were leaning
on their rifles, a bit blown by their run through field, creek, and woods.
The captain of the cadets, Garrett L. Lydecker, called them to attention.
Tired or not, they snapped with credit to their reputation for smartness
in drill, despite being spattered with mud and having sweat running
down their faces from under their shakos. Hooker looked them over and
said, "West Point, I shall need you today."

Whether he had anything more to say, the cadets were not to know
because Captain McEntee rode up to report a sudden change. He pointed back toward the bridge. Out of the orchard on the other side, the head
of another scarlet column emerged as skirmishers ran over the bridge to
deploy. "General, they've got to be the Grenadier Guards. I'm convinced
Paulet has committed his reserve. The prisoners we have taken say the
Guards were in reserve."

Hooker's face darkened. "If that is the case, Captain, we are in
worse trouble than it appears. The firing we heard in their rear behind
the town has stopped. That can only mean Kilpatrick failed, or Meagher,
or both, otherwise Paulet wouldn't be sending in the Guards." Hooker
was right. After the cavalry division had been stopped cold by the
Guards and retreated off the field, Paulet had turned the Guards right
around to throw them at Hooker's weakened line. He knew this was his
last chance to win the fight, and he needed a clear win. With his trains
savaged, a draw was as had as a defeat. He would have nowhere to go
and no means to sustain himself unless he could make his way back to
the river and depart by the boats that brought him.