Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 (19 page)

"From what I've
heard so far about this Custer,
he's impetuous," Jeb said. "Remember, he did fight his way out after Union Mills. He might try anything."

Jeb walked to the other side of the top floor of the mill and looked over at the covered bridge just south of the railroad. With his field glasses he could see Yankees deployed across the front of that bridge and along the riverbank. He studied them intently and saw that some of them were bringing up armloads of wood, kindling. So they were going to burn that first. Good move, he'd have done the same.

"Jenkins, think you can storm that bridge?" Jeb asked.

Jenkins looked out the window, studying the double-spanned bridge for a long moment.

"It's over a hundred yards long, sir. We try to charge that, we'll have four men across inside the bridge, but one volley and our boys will get tangled up."

"I want that bridge," Jeb said. "We take it, we flank Custer, then drive him back from the depot."

"Sir, do it on horseback, I don't know. Two or three wounded horses inside a covered bridge..." His voice trailed off. They were all experienced enough to know that inside a covered bridge a few downed horses could stop an entire charge.

"Your boys of the Thirty-fourth, are they still mounted?" "Coming up now, sir."

Jeb hesitated, then looked over reassuringly at Jenkins.

"We've got to try. Send them in. The Yankees will have that bridge afire in a few more minutes. Send in the Thirty-fourth. First company mounted, the rest on foot behind them. With luck your first company can rush it, then the dismounted men secure it."

Jenkins nodded, but his features were grim, as if Jeb had just given a death order.

"There must be fords along this river. It's not that deep."

"Send out patrols to look for them, but I want that bridge now. We fail in that, well, then try to find the fords. Get the boys of the Thirty-fourth ready. Have the rest of your men sweep the rail bridge with carbine fire. How long before some artillery comes up?"

"Jackson with the Charlottesville Battery is still an hour or more off, sir," Jenkins said.

"Send a courier back and tell them to move it, to move it! The next hour could be the decisive hour."

He turned on Jones.

"You have the north flank. If you think you can rush the National Road bridge, do it now! Probe for fords. Secure your left flank to Jenkins's right."

"What kind of reinforcements can we expect?" Jones asked.

"Fitz Lee's boys are back at Sykesville. I've pulled them off shadowing the north and I'm bringing them here, but it will be midday or later before they come up. Scales's infantry division was supposedly loading up in Baltimore after midnight. They should be up any time now."

"Artillery with them?" Jenkins asked. "A battalion of artillery could smother those damn Yankees, and push them back."

"A couple more batteries. Combined with the Charlottesville boys and your light battery, we can pound the hell out of them, but that is still hours away. I want that covered bridge before then, and once we take it, we flank Custer and secure the rail bridge."

He pointed toward the distant crest of the Catoctin Range, four miles away, standing out dark blue in the morning light.

"I'm not sure when, but today most likely, Grant and his infantry will come pouring out of that pass up there. He's only got one road to traverse those mountains. We take the ridge and block the road, we got the bastard bottled, no mistake. General Lee wants us to secure that pass and then the Yankees will bleed themselves white trying to get over it. I want that ridge today, and not just the railroad. Now move it!"

Baltimore and Ohio Bail Yard 8:00 A.M.

“G
od damn it, McDougal, now what!" Cruickshank roared. A billowing vent of steam was blowing out from
the lead locomotive of the convoy. The engineer was out of his cab, stamping his feet, cursing, looking around, bewildered.

McDougal, cursing, left Cruickshank's side and ran up to the engine, stopping at the edge of the plume of scalding steam.

"Stephens, you stupid son of a bitch!" McDougal roared. "What happened?"

The engineer looked back at him and then simply shrugged his shoulders, but his eyes were focused nervously on Cruickshank, who was up by McDougal's side.

"I don't know, sir. I started to feed in steam to get moving and a line just blew wide open."

"Well, shut the damn thing down," McDougal screamed, trying to be heard above the high-pitched whistling roar of the venting steam.

Stephens climbed back into the cabin, worked a valve, and the roar drifted down to a whisper. McDougal cautiously approached the locomotive, shaking his head, and then pointed toward the steam line that fed into the left-side cylinder of the locomotive.

"Busted, sir," McDougal sighed. "Just blown wide open. It'll have to be replaced."

"How long?"

"Four hours at least."

'Too many things have broken, McDougal."

"You accusing me of somethin', sir?"

Cruickshank raised his arms, then slapped his sides in exasperation. He looked back down the line. Fifteen trains were fully loaded with an entire division of infantry, men piled so thick on the cars that many were riding on the cowcatchers of the locomotives, the wood tenders, and atop the boxcars.

The locomotive that had just broken down was the lead one in line.

"Get this wreck pushed out of the way," Cruickshank said. "How?"

"You idiot, the locomotive behind it."

'Too much weight sir."

"Then damn you, disconnect it from its own train, push this wreck to a side track, and clear the line. I need this convoy moving now. General Lee will be here any minute; I need an express for him as well.

"Just move 'em," Cruickshank shouted.

"What about the broken-down train with the pontoon bridge on the single-track section?" McDougal asked.

Cruickshank stepped closer to McDougal. They were of the same height and build and anyone watching would have expected a brawl to break out.

"I'm raising your pay to fifty dollars a day in silver," Cruickshank said coldly. 'Telegraph up the line, make sure those pontoon trains are clear of the single track. This division needs to move up now. But so help me, McDougal, I'll string you up myself if I think you're playing double with me."

"Me, sir, at fifty dollars a day?" McDougal laughed. "Like hell, sir. I'll take care of you."

The Toll Road on Monocacy Creek 8:15 A.M.

C
olonel Witcher of the Thirty-fourth Virginia nervously turned and looked back at his men. First company was mounted, guidon at the front. Behind them, the rest of his command was dismounted, carbines and pistols out, the men in a column stretching up the road for fifty yards.

He lowered his head, whispering a silent prayer, then drew his saber and pointed toward the bridge, its roof just visible through the trees. "Bugler, sound the charge!"

C
uster was just riding down to the covered bridge when he heard the high clarion notes of the charge. The west end of the bridge was beginning to smoke.

Someone had found a can of coal oil in a nearby farmhouse, cut it open with a knife, and was hurling the contents on to the shingled siding. Troopers were sprinting up, tossing loads of kindling against the side of the bridge, then dodging for cover. Three men were already down, one of them dead by the side of the bridge.

George urged his mount to a gallop, riding down the length of track, reining in where the toll road crossed the track and looked straight down the tunnel-like length of the bridge, the interior already coiling with smoke, the sides licked by flames.

He saw the head of the charging column appear at the far end.

"Someone get back to Gray," he shouted. "He's in reserve back in the woodlot a few hundred yards north of here. I need him here now!"

The entry to the bridge was directly ahead, and Witcher caught a glimpse of a sign
walk your horses when crossing.

He leaned into the neck of his mount. Once into the dark tunnel of the bridge the noise was stunning, pounding hooves, echoes doubling and redoubling off the roof, the walls, the floor of the bridge, men shouting. A Yankee trooper, hunched down by a support beam at midpoint, was out from concealment, running, the far end obscured by smoke, licks of flame. No gunfire yet.

Thirty seconds, dear God, thirty seconds and we're across and back into the open.

The charge thundered forward, men shouting, a few shots, men caught in the madness of the charge, firing pistols blindly.

Saber out, he pointed the way, leaning forward, caught in the madness of a charge across a bridge, yelling insanely.

Half way across, fifty yards, ten seconds, five seconds, and we're out.

The smoke was blinding, he couldn't see, his mount nervous, slowing at the sight of the flames licking the walls on the far side. He spurred her viciously; the horse lunged forward.

Almost out of the smoke.

And then he saw it. A double file of Yankee troopers, standing, carbines lowered. A suddenly flash, and then just a quiet stillness and a slipping away.

T
he lead horses of the charge collapsed not ten yards away, riders thrown, men and horses screaming, tangling up. The third and fourth ranks of the column colliding with the horses that were already down, more men falling, a lone horse jumping the tangle, the rider superbly keeping his saddle, crashing into the double file of the volley line, slashing left and right with saber, two men staggering back, screaming, one just collapsing, a headless corpse. "Reload! Reload and fire!" Custer roared. Men were levering open their carbines, slamming in rounds, cocking pieces, firing blindly into the smoke. Another horse came out, riderless, then two more, men still holding their saddles, one with pistol out, firing, emptying his cylinder, then pitching backward off his horse.

The bridge echoed with a roaring shout. Through an eddy in the smoke George saw a packed column of dismounted troopers racing forward.

More of his men from the First were up on their feet, running up, forming a volley line three ranks deep, a lieutenant shouting for volley fire.

The men reloaded, waiting the extra few seconds. Several pitched over even as they waited. "Present! Fire!"

The interior of the covered bridge was now all smoke and confusion. Men screaming, cursing, a horse with a broken leg staggering out in blind panic, knocking its way through the volley line, a trooper coming up to its side and putting a bullet in its head, the animal collapsing and the same trooper then dropping down behind it, reloading his carbine.

George had his revolver out, drawn, cocked, waiting
...
and then the charge hit with full fury, two hundred dismounted cavalry of Virginians swarming forward, pistols, carbines, sabers out His thin volley line began to step back, men dropping carbines, drawing revolvers, blazing away.

George felt something slap his left arm, numbing it. He pivoted on his mount, saw a rebel trooper with pistol raised, cocking his revolver, and George dropped him with two shots. The rebels were out of the bridge, beginning to swarm outward, pushing the men of the First back, but as they emerged from the bridge they stepped into a firestorm. Troopers hunkered down in the ravine that Duvall's men had held but two hours ago now turned and poured in a withering fire. Few rebs made it more than a dozen feet before collapsing.

George caught a glimpse of men still inside the bridge,, tearing off their jackets, using them to beat out the flames that were licking up the sides of the bridge. The one side, soaked with the can of coal oil, was now burning hotly, but it could still be stopped.

"Come on, boys!" Custer shouted. 'Take it back!"

Men from the ravine flanking the bridge stormed forward, and a mad bloody melee ensued at close range. Troopers firing into each other's faces from not five feet away, men down on the ground grabbing, kicking, punching.

He heard a bugle call from behind him, looked back, and saw Gray riding down hard, a ragged line of mounted troopers behind him. George stood in his stirrups and waved, cheering them on.

The mounted column slammed into the melee. His boys on horseback firing left and right, pushing their way through the confused struggle
...
and the rebs began to fall back, one or two at first, and then within seconds the entire command, turning and running.

Gray, caught in the madness of the moment, pushed into the flaming bridge, saber drawn, slashing to either side, his mount jumping the tangle of dead and dying horses. The column thundered down the bridge, pursuing the retreating rebs across its entire length.

Custer fell in with the column, his mount screaming with fear as they pushed through the flames licking up the side of the bridge and over the blood-soaked bodies. Dozens of Union troopers were inside the bridge, yelling, cursing, firing blindly. Far ahead he could see that Gray had reached the far side in pursuit, and then was blocked seconds later by a volley that dropped half a dozen men around him.

"Sound recall!" Custer roared.

But he did not need to give the order. Already Gray had turned -about, the turn difficult in the tight confusion of the bridge, more men dropping.

The survivors of Gray's countercharge emerged, Gray leading the way, hat gone, blood streaming down the side of his face. The men were panting, some cursing, others filled with the wide-eyed look of troopers who had known the moment, the thrill of a charge, the driving of their enemies.

"Good work, Gray. Now get your boys back in reserve!"

Gray gasping for air, nodded, saluted, and shouted for the men of the regiment to follow him back.

All around Custer was chaos. Half a hundred or more men were down, dead, wounded, screaming, their screams mingled with the pitiful screams of the horses and those of the wounded trapped on the burning bridge.

The bridge was now ablaze. Flames licking along the eaves, gradually spreading toward the center of the span. In short order it would spread to the underpinnings, the support beams, the dry wooden floor. For the moment his right flank was secure.

He caught the eye of a sergeant and motioned him over.

"Sergeant, get a flag of truce. Tell Jeb Stuart my compliments, but I'm asking for a fifteen-minute truce on this bridge to get the wounded and dead off before they burn."

The screams of the horses and men caught in the flames were horrific.

"And for God's sake, shoot those poor animals. They deserve better than to die like that."

J
eb Stuart lowered his field glasses, shaking his head. He had spotted the Yankee trooper waving a white flag on the far side of the bridge and sent word down to honor it. The bridge was rapidly disappearing in flames, smoke billowing hundreds of feet into the air, and it was obvious they were trying to rescue as many of the wounded as possible.

Damn all. For a brief instant he thought Witcher had actually carried the bridge. Now it was going to take time, scouting, finding a ford that could be taken without too much loss.

Nothing yet at the railroad bridge, just heavy skirmishing fire back and forth. Word had just come that the light battery of the Charlottesville Artillery was even now arriving, and he had sent a courier back to guide it into place next to the blockhouse that looked down on the bridge. The Yankees had no artillery yet to counter with, a carbine was next to useless much beyond three hundred yards, and with the guns he could dominate the position. For starters, they could flatten the depot.

Frederick 9:10 A.M.

L
ieutenant Schultz, what the hell is holding you up?" Schultz looked up in surprise. It was Custer, left arm hanging limp, blood dripping from his fingertips. "General, you're hurt."

"Don't bother me with that now. I want to know what the hell is going on with these locomotives!"

"Sir. The boilers were dead cold. We had to get them fired up. It's taking time to build up a good head of steam."

"How long?"

"Another hour at least."

Even as they spoke Custer turned in his saddle to look back toward the river where a different sound had just mingled in with the cacophony of battle—artillery fire.

A couple of dozen men were gathered around the locomotives, cavalry troopers, one of them a corporal, obviously having taken charge, shouting orders. Custer rode up to him, and the corporal saluted.

"Who are you?"

"Tyler, sir. Rick Tyler, First Michigan." "Why are you here?"

"Was an engineer for three years before the war. Heard the word you needed railroad men up here, sir, so came up to help out."

"You're in charge then, Tyler, and I'm promoting you to sergeant. Will make you a lieutenant if you pull this off. Now why is it taking so damn long?"

"It's a cold start, sir. Got to get into the firebox, build a fire from scratch, start shoveling wood in. Then heat the water to a boil, build up steam pressure. It ain't healthy, but I'm throwing some coal oil in to get it going faster."

"Coal oil?"

"We're in luck, sir. Found five hundred gallons or more of it, sir, in that warehouse over there. We're going to put it all in the passenger cars pulled by the trains. Also found some turpentine, barrels of grease as well. That will really let go."

"Any blasting powder?"

"None to be found, sir. We've been asking around, but folks here say it was all cleaned out by the armies passing through. Also, sir, found a third locomotive in that engine shed over there. It's an old teakettle, twenty years old at least, but we're firing that one up as well."

"At least an hour, then?" Custer asked, and even as he spoke he fought down the light-headedness overtaking him.

"Sir, to be honest, two hours, but I'll push it. We need a damn good head of steam if you want to do it right."

"Why's that?"

"Well, sir. Figure once we get the train on the bridge I can smash down the safety valves. The fire in the passenger cars, they'll burn, but it will burn up, sir, not down. It might damage the bridge but they can still fix it. I seen that happen once with a string of boxcars just outside of Detroit that caught fire on a bridge. The bridge was back in service the next day. We get the boiler to explode, though, and, well, sir, that'll be a helluva show."

"Good work," Custer said softly.

"General?"

He looked over to Schultz, a regimental surgeon from the Fifth who was by his side. "Let me look at that arm." "Not now."

"Sir, looks like you are about to keel over,"- the surgeon replied. "Just give me five minutes, sir."

Custer nodded reluctantly, and with a grimace dismounted, sitting down on a bench under the awning of the station. Schultz helped Custer take his uniform jacket off, Custer cursing softly. The doctor bent over, examining the entry wound a couple of inches below his left elbow, an assistant by his side handing him scissors, which he used to cut the shirt back.

"This is gonna hurt, General," the doctor whispered, and then there was a flood of pain as the doctor slipped his finger into the wound.

He thought he was about to faint. The doctor drew his finger out.

"Got some bad news for you, sir. The bone's broken. Sir, I think you're going to lose that arm." "Like hell I am," Custer hissed.

"Sir, I can have you under in five minutes; it'll be over in ten. From the way you're bleeding I think an artery is severed in there. You'll bleed out if I don't take it off now."

"I've got a battle to run, damn you."

"Not today, sir. You'll be back in action in a month, sir, but today is finished for you," the doctor said gently.

"Tie it off."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Just that," Custer snapped. "Get a tourniquet on it. That will stop the bleeding, won't it?" "For a while, but why?"

"Because I've got to get back to my command."

"Sir, I put a tourniquet on that arm, it'll be above the elbow, and you'll lose that, too, if it stays on too long."

"Just do it, goddamn you. Get a tourniquet on it. You can hack at me once this is over."

The doctor stared at him intently for a moment, then reluctantly nodded, actually patting him lightly on the shoulder. He motioned to his assistant, who set to work, taking a tourniquet out of the doctor's medical bag, wrapping it around the general's arm just above the elbow, then clamping it down so tight that Custer struggled not to cry out.

The flow of blood slowed and then nearly stopped.

The assistant rigged up an arm sling, helped put it on the general, who sat back, pallid.

"Promise, once this is over, you'll come straight back to me," the doctor said.

"Sure," Custer said, forcing a weak smile, looking up at him.

"I can give you a little morphine for the pain."

"Addle my mind. Just a good shot of whiskey will do."

Several of the troopers who had gathered round to watch reached into pockets and haversacks, pulling out bottles. Custer grinned, took one of the bottles, knocked down a good long drink, and then rose shakily to his feet.