Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 (20 page)

He had not commanded these men long, and he knew some resented him and his meteoric rise to command. But by God this was his day now. It was almost worth losing an arm for. A week from now the illustrated papers would be plastered with images of him, arm in sling, leading a charge, bridge blowing up in the background. It could very well mean a second star.

"Help me up."

Again more eager hands reached out, helping him slip his jacket on, then up into the saddle.

"Get a report down to me, Tyler, once you're ready to roll. Until then I am going to keep Stuart and his rebs off the bridges."

"Yes, sir."

He turned and galloped off.

"You know I used to hate that son of a bitch," one of the troopers said, "too much glory seeking, but, damn me, he sure has the stomach for a good fight."

One Mile North of Boonsborough, Maryland 9:45 A.M.

Ri
ding as he always did at the head of his column Gen. James McPherson, commander of Seventeenth Corps, Army of the Susquehanna, saw the swirl of dust ahead, two troopers riding hard as they came out of the village. They had slowed for an instant as they approached his advance line of mounted skirmishers, several of the skirmishers then falling in by their side to lead them in.

McPherson urged his own mount to a quick trot and forged ahead to meet them at the edge of town. The troopers, their mounts snorting, lathered with sweat, reined in, saluting, the men gasping for breath. "General McPherson?" "You have him."

"Thank God, sir," one of the troopers gasped. "Afraid we'd kill our mounts if we pushed them much farther." "What's your report?"

"Sir, we're with General Custer's Brigade. He's in one hell of a fight just east of Frederick, facing two or more brigades of rebel cavalry." -

"What is Custer doing there?" McPherson asked. Though he had no details of what was supposed to be happening east of the Catoctins, his information was that the cavalry was to slowly push south, acting as a deceptive screen to keep Lee's attention focused north until his corps gained the pass and were into Frederick.

"Sir, yesterday," a trooper gasped, "the general got word

the rebs were moving a pontoon train through Frederick. He decided to get there first and block the bridge over Monoc-acy Creek. We got there just minutes ahead of a whole swarm of rebs. Sir, he's asking for infantry support."

"The railroad bridge there—what is it made of?"

"Wood, sir. But the creek's only a hundred yards wide or so. Doubt if we can get a fire burning on it; anybody steps out on it is bound to get shot."

"Artillery?"

"None, sir, we left it behind in the dash down to Frederick." "Which rebel brigades?"

"Don't know, sir, but I can tell you, as I was riding up over the pass through the Catoctins, I looked back. That whole riverbank a mile wide was just swarming with them. You could see a lot of dust in the distance, maybe infantry, maybe more cavalry. I couldn't tell."

McPherson nodded, still studying the map. Twelve miles at least to Frederick. He looked east. The high expanse of the South Mountain range was only a couple of miles ahead, a tough climb.

"The road ahead?"

"It's the National Road, sir, well macadamized. Tough on the horses, though. Mine was going lame. About six miles across the next valley and then up over the Catoctin Pass."

Custer had certainly triggered something.
If Lee takes the bridges, then blocks the pass, Grant's plan unravels.

He didn't hesitate any longer with his decision. He turned and looked back. His massive column, fifteen thousand men, was visible for miles back across the valley, dust swirling up, morning light glinting off shouldered rifles, white canvas tops of ammunition wagons and ambulances standing out.

They'd been marching since before dawn, having already covered nearly ten miles. He was planning for them to break in another hour to cook up their midday meals.

He looked back at the troopers. "If I get you fresh mounts, can you guide me?"

The two hesitated, then nodded. McPherson turned to his staff.

"Pass the word to every regimental commander. I want the men pressed. Three miles to the hour, ten-minute break to the hour and not a minute more. No straggling, provost guards to keep them moving until they drop on their faces. I want this column moving and moving hard. Round up my headquarters guard detail and find fresh mounts for these two boys. I'm going up to Frederick. I expect to see this column crossing the Catoctin Pass no later than midafternoon. Do you understand me?"

"Sir, it looks like hard pushing getting over those mountains," one of his men said, pointing toward the looming South Mountain range directly ahead.

"Get all wagons off the road, just infantry. The wagons can fall in behind them after the corps has passed. Ambulances, tell the surgeons to pack what they can on a horse and then fall in riding with the column. Pull ammunition out of the wagons, get the extra rounds passed out to the men as they march by, eighty, a hundred rounds to each man if possible. Send word back to General Grant describing everything you've just heard here. I don't have time to write it out. Tell him I'm going ahead to Frederick."

He pointed at one of his young, eager lieutenants.

"You, get back up the road to Burnside. Inform him of what you've heard here and my decision to force-march on Frederick. Tell him I hope he will press forward with all possible speed to my assistance."

The two couriers from Custer were off their mounts, one of them patting the animal's neck with affection, pouring water into his hat, emptying his canteen, the horse eagerly gulping down the few drops.

Troopers from the headquarters company came up, a lieutenant detailing two men off to trade horses. The cavalryman from Custer's Brigade was reluctant to leave his mount, handing over the reins.

"Her name is Ginger. She's a good horse, carried me through three charges. I'll come back for her after this is over."

The trooper receiving the horse nodded, the two understanding each other and their love for their mounts. There was a pause and they shook hands.

"William Bradley, I'll take good care of her. Mine is Sarah, she's got a tender mouth and hates spurs, so go easy on her."

Bradley gently led the horse over to the side of the road where it could crop some grass while he took its saddle off.

McPherson saw the exchange and could not help but smile. The two men trading horses were actually not much more than boys, their mounts beloved pets, companions.

He looked to the mountains ahead.
So close and yet so far,
he thought, but it was not of the fight ahead he was thinking. Who he thought of now was beyond the imposing range, little more than fifty miles away, in Baltimore.

If not for this rebel invasion of Maryland I'd be married now.
Grant had promised him, once Vicksburg fell, he could have a furlough to go to Baltimore to marry Miss Emily Hoffman. And then the rebels took Baltimore, and not a word from her since.

Ironically, he knew her parents were delighted. They were devout secessionists and at the start of the war had forbidden their marriage.

So close,
he thought.
Perhaps we can end this war as Grant said we would, and then I'll ride into Baltimore and, parents or not, Emily and I will marry.

Custer's troopers finished their exchange of mounts and saddled up, coming over to his side, disrupting his thoughts.

McPherson motioned to one of his staff, who pulled out a flask, handing it to the two troopers.

The one gladly took it, draining it half off, the second shook his head.

"I'm a temperance man," he said.

"Good for you, son," McPherson replied. "Now let's go see what your General Custer has started."

Monocacy function 11:00 A.M.

T
he depot was burning, the pounding of the last hour from the four guns arrayed on the opposite bank having torn it to shreds and then finally ignited it. The last of the troopers within poured out of the building, running and dodging as another shell screamed in, detonating on the track of the main line, ballast and shrapnel spraying.

George Custer sat behind the blockhouse just west of the depot, feeling light-headed, his anxious staff gathered round.

Mann was still holding the National Road bridge but had just reported that a second rebel battery was deploying on the far side, and could expect to engage at any moment. Also, it appeared that more rebs were coming up and already across the ford between him and the railroad bridge. Word had just come back from Town that several companies of rebs were across the river to the south as well, at a place called McCausland's Ford. Town already had a picket line out and, for the moment, was holding them, but more troopers, a regiment or more, could be seen on the opposite bank, heading in that direction.

"Gray, you detach half your men, send them to back up to Town," George said.

Gray nodded to one of his staff, who galloped off. Seconds later a shell nicked the side of the blockhouse, bounded off, then exploded on the far side of the track, the group hunkering down.

"Sir, maybe it's time we get out of here," Gray offered. "We're being flanked on both sides. They got two batteries. I just had a rider come down from Frederick. He was up in a church steeple and said he saw plumes of smoke, from trains approaching. My God, if they have infantry on those trains, they'll force the bridge regardless of loss. By then we'll be cut off from retreat as well."

"We hold," Custer said coolly.

"Sir, we did our best," Gray countered. We can still get out, pull back to the top of the Catoctins behind us."

He pointed to the mountain range now standing out boldly under a late morning sun. "There's only one road. We can block it all day. We get cut off and wiped out here, the rebs will have the bridge and the pass, too."

"What good is holding the pass if Lee keeps this bridge, gets his pontoons across, and then escapes?"

"Escape, sir? It's time we thought about escaping. Besides, the men are damn near out of ammunition. If infantry are coming up, what are we supposed to do, throw rocks at them?"

Custer shook his head, feeling so weak he couldn't respond. He looked up at Gray.

"May I suggest, sir, you're seriously injured, perhaps you should get back to the surgeon."

"And have you take command and order a withdrawal?" Custer snapped angrily.

Another shell slammed into the blockhouse, the building shaking from the impact, the men still inside cursing.

Their argument was cut short by the distant cry of a steam whistle and Custer looked up expectantly. For a few seconds he wasn't sure of the direction the sound came from. Could the rebel reinforcements already be coming up? A second whistle sounded and he struggled to his feet.

"We are going to blow this bridge, then we'll get out," Custer announced. "Get my horse!"

' eb Stuart shifted his field glasses. It was hard to see with the smoke that billowed up in the still summer air, but then he saw it, two trains, coming out of Frederick.
What is going on ?
He watched them intently, and then the realization hit. "Tell Captain Jackson with the battery, I want his guns to hit those trains before they reach the bridge. Order the Fourteenth onto the bridge now."

His staff looked at him, confused by the suicidal order. Only minutes before, Jeb had been exuberant, the river had been forded at two locations, he was funneling men across even now, and in another hour they'd have the depot.

'Those trains!" Jeb shouted. "They'll blow them on the bridge. Move it!"

Ev
ery step of his horse was agony to him, but George kept his saddle, galloping up the length of track toward Frederick. There was a sharp curve ahead, a small white clapboard schoolhouse to one side. He saw the smoke of the lead locomotive; it wasn't moving fast but it was coming on, rounding the curve, the locomotive not pulling anything other than its tender.

George slowed. He saw Lieutenant Schultz on the cowcatcher, the excited lieutenant leaping off as the train skidded to a stop.

The smoke of the second locomotive was several hundred yards back.

"We got a plan, sir!" Schultz cried. "Where's the cars loaded with coal oil?" "That's the second train, sir." "Where's Tyler?"

"He's piloting the second train. He sent me ahead, but we got to talk quick, sir." "The third train?"

"Another ten minutes or so before its steam is up." "I don't understand," Custer said, again feeling lightheaded.

Schultz quickly outlined the details, the idea registering with George, who in spite of his pain grinned. "Do it!"

Schultz ran up to the cab of the locomotive waving his arms.

The venting of steam stopped, pressure built up, smoke billowed from the smokestack, and, finally, the engine began to inch forward. As it slipped past Custer the engineer and two firemen on board leapt out.

The locomotive continued, unpiloted, down the track, and for a second George was hit with a deep fear. He had never thought to pass the order to make sure the switches had been set properly. He could only pray that someone down at the burning depot knew what to do.

He turned about and started to ride back down the track. To his left he saw puffs of smoke. Men, his men, on horseback, pulling back along a road, reb skirmishers pressing them.

The next engine came around the bend, pulling a passenger car and boxcar. It was picking up speed as it thundered past him. Sergeant—hopefully soon-to-be lieutenant—Tyler leaned out and waved.

George loosened his reins, spurring his mount. The pain forgotten for the moment, he galloped down the track toward the depot, riding just behind the train.

Ph
il Duvall looked around anxiously at his men. Over half his command was down after five long hours of fighting. Men were tearing open the cartridge boxes of the dead and wounded, trying to load back up. Wide-eyed, he gazed over at the colonel of the Fourteenth, who was breathing hard, gulping.

The man was scared.
Hell, who wouldn't be?
"
Alright boys," the colonel cried. "Let's go!" The colonel stood up and then stepped out right to the middle of the bridge, standing between the two tracks, saber out, pointing.

There was a hesitation and he looked back. "Come on, you bastards!" he shouted. "Don't let it be said that the Fourteenth is filled with cowards!"

Men stood up and began to run forward, hunched low, hugging the sides of the bridge, dashing from one support beam to the next.

Phil looked around at his own small command that the colonel of the Fourteenth had "volunteered" into this mad charge. He caught Sergeant Lucas's eyes, the man looking at him as if to say, "Do we really have to do this?"

"Come on, boys," Phil said, swallowing hard. "Let's go."

He stood up and ran forward. There was no rebel yell this time. The situation was too grim for that. It would be a mad dash into a blaze of fire erupting from the other side.

They reached the middle of the bridge, several men already down, one tumbling off the side of the bridge into the stream. Others were dropping, crumpling; some were slowing, returning fire.

There was the discordant hum of an artillery shell, followed by three more soaring overhead, but he could not see where they landed.