Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 (36 page)

He picked up his carpetbag and headed down the stairs. To his amazement the owner of the hotel confronted him.

"Sir, regarding your bill," the man said with an unctuous tone. "You have run up quite a few charges."

"You said you were honored for me to be here when I first checked in," Judah snapped.

"Sir, we are talking about nearly five thousand dollars. The bill for the champagne and oysters alone is rather significant." The man held up a long charge sheet. "And should I add, this is calculated in standard currency, not Union greenbacks," he paused, "or Confederate paper."

"Send the bill to me in Richmond when the war is over," Judah snapped.

He shouldered past the man and out on to the street.

To his amazement he saw a single-horse carriage come up, top down. It was his old friend Rabbi Gunther Rothenberg.

"Figured you'd need a ride," the rabbi said.

"In the name of the Eternal," Judah gasped. "You are indeed a friend. The rail yard of the B and O, my friend."

"What I assumed, Mr. Secretary."

H
alf a dozen trains had finally returned from the front and Cruickshank was back at work, ordering the loading of the stockpiles of ammunition, when he heard the first shell detonate, the explosion echoing against the brick buildings. All had stopped work, looking toward the center of town. Less than a minute later a civilian had ridden through, whipping his horse, crying that a Yankee invasion fleet was coming.

All work had stopped, the single explosion now followed by a continual thumping roar, half a dozen explosions a minute. The report of the panicky civilian was confirmed minutes later when a staff officer from Pickett rode in and took Cruickshank aside.

"We're abandoning the town," the officer said. "General Pickett orders you to load up what you can of the supplies, then set the rest afire."

The man had then ridden off without waiting for a reply. Cruickshank watched him leave, McDougal coming to his side.

"Well, General, looks like that's it for you." Cruickshank stared at him.

"Quite a few tons of explosives in those warehouses," McDougal said quietly. "Light them off and you'll burn down half the city. Now, frankly, I don't care about them rich folks, but it'll ruin us being able to work here for a long time to come."

"Orders are orders," Cruickshank said coldly. McDougal did not reply. He simply stuck his hands in his pockets.

Two more trains backed into the station, one carrying wounded, the second, a single passenger car. The second came to a halt at the main depot, and after several minutes an escort of Confederate soldiers came out, struggling to maneuver a stretcher out the door, the body on it draped with a Union flag.

"That must be him," McDougal said.

Cruickshank did not reply. He watched as the small entourage stepped down from the train and then walked off, a Confederate officer helping to hold up a young woman, all of them oblivious to the spreading confusion, the rumble of explosions.

"Cruickshank!"

He looked up and saw a small carriage coming across the yard, jostling and shaking as it crossed the tracks. He recognized the man as Judah Benjamin.

The driver of the carriage, wearing what to Cruickshank appeared to be a strange small round cap, reined in, and Judah stepped down.

"You've heard?"

"Ah, yes, sir. At least that there's fighting."

"There's a flotilla of Yankee ships coming up the harbor loaded with troops. Fort McHenry is bombarding our positions, and General Pickett will undoubtedly pull back without putting up much of a fight."

Cruickshank did not reply.

"Where's the telegraph station?"

"This way, your honor," McDougal said with a smile and led Judah off.

Cruickshank, unsure what to do next, finally turned to one of his lieutenants and told him to round up all the men of their command at once. They were to leave their packs, just grab their rifles, and come on the double.

He looked at the man with the strange hat in the carriage.

The man smiled, extended his hand, and introduced himself.

"Do me a favor, General," Gunther asked. . "Yes, sir?"

"Keep an eye on my friend. He has a hard road ahead, as do you. I shall keep you both in my prayers."

McDougal came out of the telegraph office, motioning to the train that had brought in McPherson, and began to shout orders.

With amazing speed the yard crew set to work, the locomotive and the lone passenger car shifted over to a sidetrack with a water tank, crew swinging over the pipe to refill the tender, other men scrambling to toss up wood, others with large oilcans checking the drive wheels, while yet others opened the journal boxes of the passenger car and, from buckets, slathered in hunks of grease.

"All but five of the men are reported in, sir."

Cruickshank turned to see his rough-looking detachment lining up, nearly a hundred men in all.

"Who is missing?"

"Oh, Vem Watson and several of his friends." The others chuckled.

"Where the hell are they?"

The lieutenant looked up at Gunther.

"Are you a man of the cloth, sir?" the lieutenant asked, features a bit red.

"A rabbi."

"What?"

"He's Jewish," one of the men shouted. "Go on," Cruickshank snapped.

"Well, Vern and his friends went down to a house of ill repute, said they'd be back by noon, and you wouldn't notice them missing."

Cruickshank sighed.

"Well, let the Yankees roust them out of bed. Now get aboard that train."

The men broke ranks and ran to the passenger car, piling in to overflowing, some scrambling up onto the roof, others atop the wood tender, a few even perching on the cowcatcher.

Judah came out of the telegraphy office, followed by several Confederate soldiers who had been manning the post. He walked up to Cruickshank.

"We're leaving now. That Mr. McDougal said he'd have a train ready for us."

"Over there, sir."

Judah nodded, walked over to the carriage, and extended his hand to Gunther.

"God be with you, my friend," Gunther said.

"Someday, when this is all over, come to Richmond as my guest," Judah said.

"We'll see," Gunther said sadly.

Judah. looked straight into his eyes, smiled, then, taking his carpetbag, he headed for the train. Gunther turned his carriage about and rode off.

Cruickshank found himself alone looking over at the row of warehouses stockpiled with munitions, boots, tents, heavy machinery that was to be transported back to Richmond to aid in artillery production, crates of tools, armored plating for ironclads, rail for track, machinery to make breechloading carbines, tens of thousands of horseshoes.

It'll take ten minutes to set it ablaze,
he thought,
and what a fire that will be.

He noticed as well that McDougal's workmen stood about, gazing at him. A few had picked up shovels, heavy wrenches, pry bars, axes, and picks.

He could order his men out of the car, one volley would scatter the workmen, and they could then level this damn place. In the distance he could hear more explosions and the distant crying of a mob, rioting yet again.

McDougal came up to his side.

"Your train is ready. General. You have a clear road up to Relay Station, then a thirty-minute delay until a convoy of a dozen trains passes on both tracks, though I dare say that plan will change now, what with you having all them locomotives up there and not wanting them back here."

A dozen locomotives, all they could have carried,
Cruickshank thought
.
Enough' to equal two thousand wagons of supplies.

"Just one question, McDougal, and be honest for once, damn it," Cruickshank asked, gaze still fixed on the warehouse.

"Anything at all, General, sir."

"You were playing me double the whole time, weren't you?"

McDougal laughed softly.

"Honesdy? An Irishman to an Englishman turned rebel?"

Cruickshank looked him the eyes.

"Honesdy."

"Of course I was, sir."

"Why?"

"Wouldn't you if we was reversed? You know, Cruickshank, though you're a bloody Englishman by birth, why you ever sided with them is beyond me. Slavery, all that. It's no different than the way we was treated in Ireland or you in the slums of Liverpool.

"So if you be wishing to shoot me, go ahead. But my boys over there, they might not have guns, but you should see the way they can swing a pick or pry bar into a man's head when they got to. And if you try to burn the warehouses, that's what you'll face."

Cruickshank was silent.

"Don't do it," McDougal said quietly. "I wouldn't want our friendship here to end in a bloody brawl. Besides, you'll bum half the city down and things here are hard enough as it is. My men have families, as do I."

Their gazes held for several seconds.

"A deal then," Cruickshank said, "the last of our deals."

"Go on."

"Help me to load two or three trains with ammunition, and I'll spare everything else."

"How do I know you won't burn it anyhow, once loaded up?"

"You have my word on it." McDougal hesitated then nodded.

"Deal."

McDougal turned to his men and started to shout orders, Cruickshank doing the same to his own command, having them stack arms.

Within minutes hundreds were at work at a pitch Cruickshank had not seen once across the last several days. Cases of small-round ammunition were lugged out and hauled into boxcars or carted over to the train where Judah still waited and piled into the passenger compartment. Boxes of artillery shells, two men to a box, were trotted out and put on flatcars.

Locomotives were uncoupled while the crews worked, moved up to the engine houses, where fuel and water were taken on, grease and oil checked, then returned to the cars and hooked up.

It took little more than an hour to have three entire trains loaded up.

All the time the sound of gunfire was increasing, now counterpointed by the shriek of heavy shells, most likely from the monitors.

Finally, McDougal approached Cruickshank.

"I've given you three trains, as promised. They'll run fine."

The three engines were already maneuvering out of their sidings, pulling the precious supplies that could sustain the army through an entire long day of battle.*

Again a moment's hesitation. Cruickshank looked back to the warehouses crammed with enough for a dozen more trains but already, across the far side of the railyard he could see a column of infantry pulling back, heading northwest, out of town.

"A deal is a deal," Cruickshank replied and stepped past McDougal, walked to the passenger car, and mounted the back steps. Leaning out, he waved to one of his men who was in the locomotive cab. The engine lurched, beginning to inch forward with a blast of steam.

"General, darlin'."

He looked down, McDougal walking alongside him. "What now?"

"You know you forgot my day's wages for today. Since I only worked half the day, that'll be thirty dollars in silver." "Go to hell!"

"Where I expect to meet you, too, sir."

McDougal reached into his back pocket, pulled out a bottle, and tossed it up to Cruickshank.

"We'll drink another when we meet in the lower regions," McDougal shouted.

Cruickshank almost allowed himself to smile. Uncorking the bottle, he took a long drink and climbed to the back platform of the train.

McDougal stood in the middle of the track, waving, growing smaller and smaller as the train picked up speed
...
the last train out of Baltimore, smoke boiling up from the city beyond.

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 12:45 P.M.

'hey're going in!" one of his staff cried.

He did not need to be told. Though the smoke all but
masked the movement, he could see the dark columns coming down the slope toward his left flank, heading toward the same ford they had attempted to breach the day before. This would be the obvious point of attack now that his guns had drawn back.

Alexander was already redirecting his fire, shifting from long-distance counterbattery to direct support, pounding the heavy columns, which looked to be of corps strength, perhaps fifteen thousand men. At last Grant was committing himself.

He felt it was time to
move, to go down behind the Mc
Causland Farm, to see directly to the repositioning of the guns and to ensure the movement of one of Beauregard's divisions into a support position if the pressure on Hood's men down at the ford became too heavy.

"Sir?"

It was one of his staff, holding a note, his hand shaking. Lee took it and scanned its contents and felt as if he had just taken a visceral blow. It was from Judah Benjamin. He looked back to the west.

Was this coincidence or part of your plan?
he wondered, looking toward what had been identified as Grant's headquarters area.

If planned, it was masterful. Seek battle here, block the river, for that report had just come in a half hour ago, and now strike my base of supply.

He looked down at the assaulting column, his own troops having opened up on it with a thunderous volley, Union troops by the scores dropping, and still it pushed forward.

He crushed the telegram in his fist.

Fine, then
,
he thought.
Let it be here. It will take two, perhaps three days for whatever is hitting us in Baltimore to take effect. So come on and attack, and let us see how we match each other. In that time I will crush you, and then all your maneuverings will be meaningless.

He went over to Traveler, mounted, and rode down to face the approaching charge.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

McCausland Farm 4:30 P
M.

I
t had been a bloody nightmare; in fact, it still was. Ord slowly walked up the lon
g slope from the ford to the burn
ed-out ruins of the farm.

Never had he seen such carnage, and all joy of battle, all enthusiasm, was purged out of him. Barely a step could be taken without tripping over a body.

It started two hundred yards back from the ford, clusters of men dropped by rebel artillery, then lines of them down by the crossing itself. He had finally waded the stream on horseback and just below the crossing the slow-moving water was tinted pink from the dozens of bodies that had drifted down from the crossing and then snagged on rocks or broken tree limbs, cut down by the incessant fire.

At the first Confederate entrenchment the ground was churned up, muddy, from the deadly hand-to-hand fighting, bodies and wounded intermingled.

Slowly he moved up the long, deadly four-hundred-yard slope to the farmhouse. Over half the men of his First Division carpeted the ground. In places it looked as if they were a line of battle down on the ground, just resting, having been cut down by terrifying volleys that had dropped up to a hundred at a time.

He rode on, the air overhead a constant hum of mimes, spent canister, and shrieking shells fired high.

He stopped by the farmhouse, stunned by what was before him. He had missed Shiloh, but had often heard stories of the absolute destruction around the Hornets Nest. This, he realized, must far transcend it.

The ground for several dozen acres was nothing but churned up dirt and mud, the result of Hunt's morning barrage. Nearly thirty destroyed guns littered the slope, some collapsed down on one wheel, others overturned, others with entire crews and horses from the limber team dead.

But it was the infantry fight here that had been truly horrific. On the one side it had been men of Early's command, tough veterans; on his side were three divisions, and they had fought it out toe to toe. He actually had to dismount to weave his way through the carnage. Dozens of stretcher-bearer teams, some of them Confederates with white strips of cloth tied around their sleeves or hatbands, were gingerly picking their way through the chaos, pulling men out, rolling them over, making a quick judgment, picking some up, leaving others behind.

He had ordered up the corps ambulances, the few that had pressed ahead after the forced march of the infantry two days before. These were parked at the bottom of the slope, loading up, and then splashing across the ford to the hospital area.

The roar of battle ahead was a continual thunder. He pushed forward through a constant stream of men staggering to the rear. Most were walking wounded, men hobbling along, two comrades, one with a shattered left leg, another with a broken right leg, with arms wrapped around each other, moving slowly. A man, stripped to the waist, dirty, lank hair hanging to his shoulders, a bullet hole in his stomach, came back, waving a leafy branch, eyes glazed, hysterically chanting the refrain from the "Battle Hymn." "Glory, glory, hallelujah
...
glory, glory hallelujah ..."

"Edward!"

He saw Grant riding up, cigar clenched firmly in his mouth, gingerly maneuvering Cincinnatus through the piled-up bodies and then corning forward..

Exhausted, Ord did not bother to salute.

"How goes it?"

"How goes it, sir?" Edward asked. His normally high-pitched voice was near to warbling. Unable to contain himself, he pointed across the slopes to McCausland Farm.

"That's my corps there," he said.

"What's ahead?"

"Not sure. I know we shattered a division, Jubal Early. Tore them apart once we gained the farm. Reports say that a reserve division ahead, not yet identified, but supposedly Beauregard's, is blocking our advance. Also, the guns not destroyed by Hunt are still over there."

Grant did not need to be told. He could hear their thunder, shot that missed the ranks ahead skimming overhead.

"General, there's no further purpose to this advance," Ord announced. "My corps is fought out."

"Tell your men to stop, to pull back to here, form a salient around the ford."

"Thank you, sir."

Ord saluted, bowed his head, and rode forward.

Near M
cCausland Farm 5:30 P
M.

T
he gunfire beyond McCausland Farm was rippling down, slowing in volume and pace. Lee rode along the line, watching as Beauregard's men slowly pushed forward, the Yankees giving ground. What had once been a cornfield was now as flat as the one at Sharpsburg. Every stalk cut down, the ripening corn replaced by a grim harvest of blue and gray.

In a significant way, this fight had indeed been like Sharpsburg and the cornfield. Charge and countercharge had swept the field repeatedly until all semblance of order, of meaning too, perhaps even why they were fighting for this ground, was forgotten. It had simply devolved into a murder match by both sides.

Jubal Early was limping across the field toward him, and for once even this tough old fighter seemed shaken.

"My boys," Jubal said, coming to Lee's side and looking up. "Sir, my boys. That's my entire division out there." He gestured across the cornfield toward the farm.

Lee could not reply, leaned down, patted him on the shoulder, and turned back to ride to his headquarters.

If this was the way Grant intended to fight it out, it was time to turn the tables.

Se
rgeant Hazner slipped back down in his trench. In the last few minutes it just seemed that a terrible exhaustion had set in oh both sides. Almost all firing had ceased. Colonel Brown crept past, patting men on the shoulder, telling them to stand down, to clean their weapons, and watering parties would be formed. Hazner was not at all surprised when Brown called on him to form that detail.

He looked around at his men. The regiment had not taken too many casualties this day, twenty dead and wounded, more dead than wounded actually, mostly head shots, and one section of men knocked down when a shell detonated directly above their trench.

The blockhouse, just to their-right, had been a favorite target of sharpshooters all day, its front and flank absolutely shredded by hundreds of bullets.

"Man could take that thing down and open a blacksmith shop with what he found in that wood," someone quipped, but no one laughed; they were all too damn tired and thirsty.

Hazner pointed to a dozen men.

"Get canteens," he said, voice so hoarse he could barely speak.

The men spread out, bent double, moving down the entrenchment, picking up canteens as they moved. Hazner ventured to stand up, taking off his cap, peeking over the lip of the trench.

What a damned nightmare
,
he thought What little vegetation there had been in front of his position, clear down to the river, was beaten to pulp. The tops of trees along the riverbank were shredded. The Yankee entrenchments on the far side were again becoming visible, the smoke from the long day's fusillade starting to lift on a building westerly breeze. At the edge of the railroad cut, held by the Yankees, he saw stretcher teams, bent low, climbing out the back of the position and sprinting up the slope to the rear. The understanding that both sides had always held fire for stretcher details continued to hold; no shots were deliberately aimed at them, but random shots could still take them out, and more than one man carrying a stretcher suddenly collapsed.

The more aggressive on both sides began to resume fire now that the smoke was clearing enough to see the other side, and Hazner ducked down after one round zipped by a bit too closely.

The water detail gathered around him, men with ten, fifteen canteens slung around their necks.

"Let's go," Hazner said. He led the way down the trench. They passed through the next regiment to the left, the entrenchment curving back to the southwest, following the bend of the hill. Their dead were piled out on the far side of their stronghold, the bottom of the trench carpeted with tens of thousands of pieces of paper, torn cartridges. The men looked as if they had come from a minstrel show, faces blackened by smoke and powder, rivulets of sweat streaking their faces.

"Fired a hundred fifty rounds, I did," he heard one of them boasting wearily. "Know for sure I got three of 'em. Boy, what a shooting gallery we had today."

Even as he spoke the man rubbed his shoulder.

He passed through another regiment and then another and then finally the trench just ended. Directly below was the railroad track leading to the bridge, but they were now a good four hundred yards back from the front.

"Be careful there," said a sergeant posted at the end of the entrenchment. "They got a few real good shooters over there."

Hazner nodded his thanks, took a deep breath, and climbed out of the trench and slid down the slope to the railroad track. Men were scurrying back and forth, bent on the same duty, carrying canteens for Scales's Division posted up on the slope looking down on the center of the line.

Long-distance harassing fire was indeed coming from the railroad cut on the other side of the Monocacy, nothing accurate, but an unaimed ball at six hundred yards could kill just as quickly as an aimed one.

"Come on, boys," Hazner said, and he slid down off the track and into an open field. A mill was directly before him, at least what was left of it, the building having caught fire during the day. Behind the mill was a small pond, all but concealed in the drifted banks of smoke. In spite of his exhaustion he ran down to it. Scores of men were lying along the bank around the pond, and he slipped down between two of them, the man to his left a Yankee, but he didn't care.

Brushing the water back with his hand he stuck his head in, delighting in the tepid water, and drank deeply.

"Ah, thank God," he whispered. Splashing water up over his neck, he was half-tempted to just take off his cartridge box and jump in.

"Ah, Sergeant, maybe we better go someplace else," one of his men said softly, tugging him on the shoulder.

"Why?"

"Most of these boys is dead."

Hazner half-sat up, looked at the Yankee lying next to him, head buried in the water, and shook him.

The man's head turned slightly and Hazner recoiled with horror. He had no face, the jawbone and nose completely blown off. He had been drinking right next to him, only inches away.

Before he quite realized what he was doing, Hazner got to his knees, bent double, and vomited.

Gasping, he leaned over, ashamed of the fact that he had vomited on the dead soldier.

"It's all right there, Sergeant," one of his men said. He looked up. It was young Lieutenant Hurt, the boy he had braced up before the assault on Fort Stephens. Hurt put his hand out and pulled Hazner up to his feet.

"We thought you seen it," Hurt said, and he pointed to bodies around the small pond, not just on the banks but floating in the middle of it, one of the bodies having jammed in the millwheel. The water was actually tinted pink. Some of
the
men were
sti
ll
alive, but so weak that after having collapsed into the water they were now drowning.