Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 (23 page)

Lee edged Traveler over to the group, the last of the Yankees still sitting coming to their feet as he approached.

"My compliments, gentlemen, on your stand here," Lee said, returning the salute of a begrimed Union captain whose arm was in a sling. "I understand you fought with honor and bravery. My thanks to you for that flag of truce so our wounded could be taken off the burning bridge."

"You'd have done the same, General," the captain replied.

"I'll see that you and your men are paroled as quickly as possible," Lee said. "Men such as you should be allowed to return safely to your families."

The captain looked up at him.

"Thank you, sir."

"Captain Duvall, my sympathies on the loss of your friend. Sadly, such is the nature of this war. I shall pray for you and for his family this evening."

"Thank you, sir," and there was a catch in Duvall's voice.

Lee motioned for Jeb to join him. Together they rode around the blockhouse, which was now serving as a field hospital, and up a gentle slope to the edge of the railroad cut, which was littered with bodies from both sides. Behind him, remnants of the covered bridge, sticking out of the water, still burned.

Uncasing his field glasses, Lee quickly scanned the town. He remembered it well, having ridden through it the year before during the Sharpsburg campaign. Well-ordered, neat homes, the citizens not necessarily pro-Confederate but at least respectful of him and his men.

Beyond, he could see where the National Road rose up, curving back and forth to the crest of the Catoctin Mountains. He could see puffs of smoke, hear a distant echo of gunfire.

"Do we have the heights yet?" Lee asked.

"No, sir. My first concern was to try and envelop Custer and at the same time seize the railroad bridge intact. I've detailed off Jenkins to push the heights, Jones to secure the town. Fitz Lee is bringing his brigade across the National Road bridge even now, and I've ordered them up to the heights."

"I know, I just passed my nephew while coming here."

"Sir, we could use infantry and artillery.".

"Scales is bringing his division across the ford just north of here and is halfway up to the town, but it will still take time to deploy and get them into action."

If only we had held this bridge
,
Lee thought.
We could have brought the trains in, run them right up the siding to Frederick, and Scales would already be in action.

"What's up there?"

"What's left of Custer. I'd say two of his regiments got out."

"Surely we can gain the heights from them with what we have?"

"Sir, my boys rode all night." "So did Custer's."

"Sir. That's a steep slope fighting dismounted. It'll take some doing to get up it."

Lee reluctantly found he had to agree. "Any word of their infantry?"

"Nothing, sir. With luck we just might've stolen the march on them. We gain those heights with Scales and my boys, and Grant is bottled up in the next valley over. He'll bang his head against us all day along. That ridge makes our ground at Fredericksburg look like a billiard table in comparison."

Lee looked about at the ground, hay and winter wheat trampled down by the passing of both armies, smoke cloaking the river valley. Even as he watched, a thirty-foot section of the bridge gave way with a creaking groan and dropped into the river.

His engineering training allowed him to work a quick calculation. He'd have to find good timber, shore up at least one side of the bridge for a single track, get men to find rail, best bet being to tear some up from the spur line. It'd take a day, at least, maybe two. Bottle Grant up at the same time and force him to attack, filling him with the anxiety that he could very well escape back into Virginia once his pontoon train moved down to Point of Rocks. That would force Grant to come on.

"I want those heights, at least for the moment. I want to see what is going on over on the other side," Lee said. "Either we'll see all of Grant's army coming on, or nothing. If it's nothing, then we'll know that Grant is heading toward Virginia, or just perhaps moving behind the screen of militia to the north. We need to confirm that right now.

"Round up every extra man you have and send them up there. I'll set up headquarters back at the National Road bridge."

Stuart saluted and galloped off.

Though caught off balance for the moment, Lee found himself sensing that he was recapturing that balance, that with luck Grant was indeed coming in from the west. If so, he could now choose the ground and force Grant to come at him, the same as at Union Mills.

Braddock Heights—Catoctin Ridge 1:45 P.M.

H
ere it comes," McPherson announced, but no one needed to be told. The few hundred cavalry troopers with him, joined by his headquarters staff, were played out; barely a man had half a dozen cartridges left.

On the road below, a column of infantry was advancing with impunity. At such range, artillery would have torn them apart, but there was no artillery up here.

McPherson turned and rode but a few dozen yards to the west. Below him he could see his own column, dark blue, like a long coiling serpent moving across the valley between the Catoctin Range and South Mountains, the head of his column still a half hour away.

He had sent back several couriers, urging the column to press forward, but the race would apparently be lost by not more than a few minutes.

"They're deploying, sir!" someone shouted. Colonel

Mann, one of Custer's men, who was dismounted, his horse dead, was pointing.

He didn't need to go back to look. They were most likely down to two hundred yards, lead regiments shaking out from column to line for the final sweep up to the ridge.

A scattering of shots echoed, and a dozen troopers, still mounted, came over the crest of the road, slowing at the sight of McPherson.

"Sorry, sir, we ain't got a round left, and don't ask us to draw sabers and charge,"

McPherson smiled and shook his head.

"You did good, boys, the best I've ever seen cavalry fight. Get yourselves out of here."

The sergeant leading the group saluted and led his men down the road to the west.

One of McPherson's staff came up, leading his horse.

"They'll be on the crest in a minute, sir."

McPherson sighed, mounting, watching as Mann rallied what was left of Custer's men, pointing to the rear.

"Sir." One of McPherson's staff was pointing down the road. A knot of officers, riding hard, was coming up the slope. Behind the officers he could see that the head of the column was double-timing, men running, sunlight glinting off of rifles. With field glasses raised he could see as well that with every yard gained a man was staggering out of the column and collapsing from exhaustion. Men were shedding blanket rolls, haversacks, but still pressing on.

The officer in front
...
it was Grant, of course.

As a volley rang out behind him, he turned and looked back and saw the first of the rebel infantry, mingled in with dismounted reb cavalry, reaching the crest.

Suicide was not a gesture he cared for today. He spurred his mount, starting down the slope, staff about him, Custer's men, most on foot, some mounted, staggering along.

Grant spotted him, leaned into his mount and, with his usual display of brilliant horsemanship, came up the slope at a gallop. McPherson rode down to meet him.

"What is happening here?" Grant shouted, reining in hard by McPherson's side.

"Infantry just on the other side." "How many?"

"Full division. It stretches all the way back to Frederick. Lead regiments deploying into line."

Grant looked up to the crest of the road and then back to their own troops, still coming on at the double, several hundred yards away.

A few shots whistled past them but Grant ignored the threat.

"Can we take 'em with your men?"

Grant pointed back to the great blue serpent weaving across the valley.

"Hell, yes," McPherson replied.

"Lead them in. I'll head back down and urge them on."

He leaned over and shook McPherson's hand.

"Stay healthy, James. And you did a good job, moving your men forward. Half an hour later and Lee would have had this ridge for good."

Grant turned and rode off, McPherson grinning. That man already assumed they were going to sweep the rebs off the crest.

By heavens, if he believes it, then I'm the man to do it
,
McPherson thought, even as he rode down to the head of his column, shouting for the boys to keep moving but to shake out into line of battle.

Braddock Heights 2:00 P.M.

C
ome on, South Carolina, form up here!"

Sergeant Major Haz
ner, following the lead of Col
onel Brown, urged his men on at the double. Men were doubled over, panting, some peeling off blanket rolls and dropping them even as they ran up the steep grade of the road. Then they broke to the right, climbing over a post and rail fence, and then into a tangle of second-growth trees, low branches whipping back into men's faces, the column turning into a pushing, shoving, cursing crowd.

To their left a volley rang out and Hazner could see the smoke swirling up from the road. Cavalry troopers were mingled in with the infantry, firing with carbines; some had pistols out, waiting for the range to close. Shouts ahead; a staff officer, hat oft and sword drawn, was waving to Brown.

"Fall in here. Fall in here!"

The ground began to slope away, dropping down. They were over the crest and Hazner felt as if his legs were about to buckle and give way.

"What the hell is going on?" Brown shouted to the staff officer.

"We got the crest, but by God, they've got infantry, thousands of 'em, coming up the road. Get ready, they'll hit any minute. Scales says we got to hold this ridge!"

The staff officer saluted and, turning, ran northward, shouting for the next regiment behind the Fourteenth South Carolina to fall into line.

The men were already loaded, Brown shouting for all ten companies to fall in by line, Hazner pushing the men along.

Another volley from the left, then a switching over to independent fire.
Must mean they are close,
Hazner thought.

Directly ahead, the second-growth timber gave way to an orchard, and as he looked that way, he stood goggle-eyed. He could see them, see them clear back to the next mountain range, which had to be five or six miles off. A long column of blue that seemed endless, surging forward, weaving its way clear up to the crest beyond.

"There's thousands of 'em," someone gasped.

"Just worry about the ones in front of you," Hazner shouted. Even as he spoke he saw Yankee skirmishers on the far side of the orchard. They were moving slow, either cautious or exhausted. A few stepped out into the orchard and dropped within seconds from the fire going downslope delivered by the regiment astride the road.

More skirmishers appeared, dropping down behind the fence bordering the other side of the orchard. Puffs of smoke, but so far none in the direction of the Fourteenth.

"Get down, men, get down," Brown shouted.

No one needed to be told what he was thinking, and all were grateful to collapse to the forest floor. After the heat of the climb up the road, the cool leaves, ferns, and undergrowth were a blessing. Some of the men pulled their canteens around, lifting them to drink. Hazner said nothing, but if they came begging for water an hour from now, the hell with them.

But the sight of them drinking got to him. He took a few sips himself, the water a bit muddy, having been scooped up while they crossed the Monocacy. They waited, fire from behind the fence building in intensity, still directed toward the regiment astride the road and open yards of the small homes and tavern atop the crest.

"Check your caps, boys," Hazner said, even as he drew up his own rifle, half-cocked it, and saw that the percussion cap was still in place. He waited, glad for even a few minutes to catch his breath, the trembling in his legs stopping, but hunger hitting him so, that he reached into his haversack and pulled out a piece of hardtack.

As he reached in, his hand brushed against the journal of his comrade, Maj. John Williamson, dead at Union Mills. Why he still carried it was beyond him. It was an extra pound, its details, its questionings too disturbing, but somehow it was still a link to a childhood friend he could not quite let go of.

Two months ago John was still alive, the two of them marching side by side up the Cumberland Valley, filled with hope that soon the war would be over. John had died at Union Mills, shot through the head.

Brown leaned up on one elbow to survey their line. The regiment was little more than a third of those who had marched that day back in June. Gone were the men lost at Gettysburg, Union Mills, and in the disastrous charge in front of Washington.

Always they were told the "next one" would be the "last one." Though he found it hard to believe in a God who cared, who intervened for those who prayed, still he could not help but utter a silent wish,
Let this be the end of it.

He looked down the slope while biting off a piece of hardtack and saw a flicker of red, white
...
a Union flag. A regiment was coming up. Shadowy glimpses of men in dark blue, shaking out from column into line, moving up to the edge of the fence row.

"Get ready," Colonel Brown hissed, crouching low, moving down the length of the line.

The flag emerged from the other side of the orchard, held high, a state flag beside it, Hazner could not tell which one.

The men approaching gave out three "Huzzahs!" as they knocked over the split rail fence, stepped into the orchard, and with poised bayonets started through the orchard.

"Up, boys, up!" Brown shouted.

The regiment stood.

"Volley fire on my command! Take aim!"

The two hundred rifles of the Fourteenth South Carolina were lowered, aiming downslope. The Yankee regiment, angling toward the men holding the road, had not expected this. Their colonel, out front, still mounted, shouted something, pointing his sword toward the Fourteenth.

"Fire!"

Dozens of Yanks dropped. Miraculously, their colonel still kept his mount.

"Reload! Independent fire at will!"

The Yankees, as if guided by a single hand, raised their rifles to their shoulders and took aim.

"For that which we are about to receive ..." a wag in the line shouted, even as the Union volley hit. They had the advantage of being up slope, protected by the trees, but still a dozen men dropped or staggered back from the volley line. Hazner was showered with bits of bark and tree sap from a spruce he was standing next to.

The fastest had already reloaded, and now the fight was truly on. Fire rippled up and down the line, men shouting, cursing, laughing, tearing cartridges, capping nipples, taking aim. The calmer ones braced their rifles against a tree before firing.

Hazner stepped back from the volley line, walking its length. He spotted young Lieutenant Hurt, so green at Fort Stevens, now calmly directing his men to pour it into the men around the colors. Smoke cloaked the orchard. Then the return fire slackened.

A cheer went up from the Fourteenth, the Yankees were falling back. But they did not retreat far. Once out of the orchard they stopped, some of the men taking a few dangerous seconds to grab fence rails and pile them up as a barricade before dropping behind them.

Well-aimed fire began to slam into the ranks of the Fourteenth. Some of the shots were high, but some were hitting, men grunting, cursing, or silendy collapsing.

"Down, boys!" Hazner shouted.

His men needed no urging. They hunkered down behind trees, rocks, some crawling up the dozen or so yards to the edge of the orchard, tearing down the fence that flanked it on their side, piling the rails up the way the Yankees did on the other side, a hundred yards away.

Within a few minutes a deadly game was on. Both sides seasoned, both knowing how to fight, trading fire across a narrow orchard, neither willing to give any ground.

Braddock Heights 2:30 P.M.

Ge
neral Lee, I must urge you, sir, please come up on foot," General Scales begged, standing between him and the incoming fire sweeping the crest. Lee could not help but nod in agreement. To take Traveler the few dozen yards to the crest would be madness, for him, his staff, and his beloved mount. He swung down out of the saddle.

On the road beside him men from Scales's Division were continuing to push up the road. He had passed them on the ride up here, too restless to remain any longer at the bridge.

As he rode by, the men struggled to cheer, but they were moving fast, doubled over, pounding up the steep slope to the roar of battle, which now swept the crest.

"Sir, please come no further. It's too dangerous up there."

Lee smiled and simply stepped around Scales, who came back to his side and deliberately placed himself in front of Lee.

"Sir, if you insist, please follow me then," Scales said, and crouching down slightly, he led the way.

They angled off the road to the left and slipped behind a small tavern.

"From the top floor you can see what is happening, but please do not stand close to the window, sir."

Lee walked into the building, which was already transformed into a hospital, dozens of men on the floor, and followed Scales up the narrow steps to the second floor. When Scales opened a door, several cavalry troopers near the window looked back at their guests in surprise, the sergeant leading the three coming to attention.

"Good log walls, General, is stopping the bullets," the sergeant said, "but this window is mighty dangerous."

Even as he spoke splinters of glass from a windowpane sprayed back onto the bed in the middle of the room.

Lee nodded his thanks and approached to within a half dozen feet, and raising his field glasses, he looked out.

Smoke obscured the road directly below, but what he saw beyond was what he had come to find out. A corps at the very least, the column visible clear across the valley and back up to the mountain beyond.

"It's their Seventeenth Corps," Scales said. "We've taken a few prisoners. James McPherson is their commander."

Lee sighed inwardly. .

It was far too bitter, and he looked away for a moment. James was brilliant, tough, a good leader. He'd push

straight in, sensing that if he let his opponent consolidate his hold on this ridge, the campaign was already over, the initiative now on the Southern side.

He remembered conversations with the young cadet about military history, about Napoleon's use of mass at the crucial point of battle. McPherson would not wait; he'd come slamming in; he was already doing that. Studying the road again, Lee saw the regiments were shaking out of column and coming up the slope in battie line, moving fast.

"Sir, when can we expect reinforcements?" Scales asked, interrupting Lee's thoughts.

"Sir?"

"Reinforcements?"

"Hood's old division is coming up. They took trains from Baltimore and should be getting off now."

"Back where we dismounted?" Scales asked. "That's several hours of marching."

Lee nodded, saying nothing.

"Artillery, sir, a few batteries would be mighty helpful."

"Back with the trains as well."

Scales fell silent as Lee raised his glasses again.

He scanned the advancing columns of blue. They were moving hard; he could see scatterings of men by the roadside, collapsed. McPherson would be calling for double time to bring up his men; his corps would be exhausted by the time they reached this crest. Back at the opposite crest, the South Mountain range, Lee saw that the road was empty except for some wagons. A break in their column of march? Maybe there was an opportunity presenting itself. Catch McPherson by himself and defeat him in isolation.

He watched, ignoring another shower of glass that sent Walter Taylor nervously to his side, almost blocking his view.

"Let them come," Lee said quietly, his voice almost tinged with sadness. "Let them come."

"Sir?" Scales asked.

"Hold as long as you can," Lee said, "but don't overex-tend. I want your division intact, sir, not a wreck. Hold as long as you can then pull back."

"I don't understand sir."

"If we hold here, McPherson will finally halt, build up, and then come on in full strength against your one division. But there is a chance we can actually lure McPherson in. He is impetutous when he feels he is winning. We lure him over this ridge and then hit him with our reserves coming up."

Lee stepped away from the window and began to outline his plan.

Below Braddock Heights 3:00 P.M.

Ja
mes McPherson, hat off, shouted for the next regiment in line to break to the right, cross the field, and deploy into line. The men were pale with exhaustion. The Second Brigade of his Second Division was now up and deploying out.

The fire coming from the crest was murderous, but through eddies in the smoke he could see his own volley lines, extending out farther and farther to either flank as each new regiment fell into line.

They were stretching them out up there.
The rebs must be damn near as tired as my boys going up that slope
.
Just one good push and he'd be through them; he could sense that.

The Third Brigade was now approaching, men moving fast.

"Straight up the slope, my boys!" McPherson shouted. "Straight up till you're engaged, then give them hell!"

Braddock Heights
3:35
P.M.