Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 (41 page)

"Sir. My company w
as detailed down south, to Buck
eystown ford to guard it. About an hour ago, reb cavalry stormed it."

"Did you see anything else? Infantry, artillery? What was their strength?"

"No, sir. Figured I should report in."

"Who's in command down there?"

"Sir, we were just a company, a few more companies stationed back at Buckeystown above the ford. The rebs, they just came out of nowhere, shooting, hollering, killing everyone. I thought I should get back here to report. I seen Jeb Stuart myself leading the charge."

"How did you know it was him? An hour ago it was near total darkness."

"I knew it was him. He had on that funny hat and was out front, sir. I know it was him."

"Did anyone send you?"

"No, sir, came on my own."

Grant looked at him. The boy was obviously frightened and had experienced a hard ride, his mount blown.

Grant said nothing and turned away, Ely following him.

"Boy's in a panic," Grant said. "Could just be a raid?" Ely offered. "Or more," Grant replied.

He had long ago memorized the maps and knew every detail.

"About six miles down to there. One of several things. It just might be a raid, perhaps to secure the road south, make us nervous. Second, it might really be Jeb, though I won't take that boy's word for it. Third ..."

He paused and looked back to the east, where all was still.

"Lee is flanking us."

He whispered the last words, but with so many at headquarters, several overheard, and within seconds the entire headquarters area was buzzing.

Angrily, Grant turned.

"Silence!"

All the men turned toward him, some coming to rigid attention.

He gazed at his staff, ice glittering from his eyes.

"No panic, no running about like chickens with your heads cut off. We know Lee
is a good foe, better than Pem
berton or old Joe Johnston. If he's flanked us, he's flanked us. But that also means he is where I want him, out in the open. Now go about your business. And not a word to anyone outside of this headquarters. If but one of you starts spreading a panic, by heavens I'll have you court-martialed."

He was a bit embarrassed by the outburst but knew it had to be done. In spite of their confidence, the boasting of so many of his men about what would happen, how they would show Easterners how men from the West could tame Lee, he knew that down deep for many that was a lot of bluster. Lee was indeed a legend. Lee was famous for the surprise flank march, and now he was testing Grant with one.

Inwardly, he cursed himself for a moment. He should have detached a brigade to the ford, but he wanted every man available into this fight.

Too late now to change that. I have to find out more.

Directly to his front a scattering of distant rifle fire began
to open up,-and within minutes started to build. This time it was Lee who had opened the day's match. Up and down the length of the creek his men began to blaze away. His own boys, many of whom but minutes before were out behind their trenches, cooking breakfast or relieving themselves, dashed back into the trenches and began to return fire, the volume building.

Henry Hunt began to open up, this time engaging in a measured and very long distance duel with Confederate guns in the center of their position.

Was this a mask in itself?
Grant wondered.
Of
course Lee would open
up, threaten perhaps a local attack to keep me focused as long as possible on this place.

"Ely, get a couple of men, our best mounts. Men with good eyes and brains who won't get carried away or exaggerate. Send them down toward Buckeystown to scout things out, then have them report back here."

Ely nodded.

"Sir, any other orders."

Grant looked back to the east.

I
will not dance to his tune,
he thought
.
Not based on the report of one frightened lieutenant. Besides, if he is flanking me, it'll be several hours before he really hits.

"No," Grant said. "Everyone is to stay in place until I say different."

He turned and walked over to the fire where the enlisted cook looked up and grinned, offering up a plate of fried salt pork, mixed in with crumbs of smashed-up hardtack.

Stoically, Grant tried to eat the meal, if only to set an example, but knew that within minutes he would be down by the latrine, bringing it up again, his head still throbbing.

Buckeystown 6:00 A.M.

C
ome on boys, move it, keep it mov
ing!" General Beauregard was at
the crossroads leading up from the ford that intersected the road that headed up to Frederick.

Regiment after regiment marched by at the quick step. Some were beginning to flag after the sharp two-mile climb up from the river bottom. They'd been up all night but there was definitely a fire in their eyes, more than one shouting good-natured gibes to their general as they flowed past.

These were tough men and he was proud of them. Men who had defended Charleston for over a year in boiling heat, clouds of mosquitoes day and night, many ridden with ague and living on bad rations.

Up here in the North they had lived off the fat of a rich land, had seen victory against the vaunted Army of the Potomac at Union Mills, having delivered the crucial flanking blow, and it looked like they were about to do it again.

Staff officers at the intersection were directing each regiment as it approached. First Division was to file off to the left of the road and form line of battle. Second Division, which was a half mile down the ford road but coming on fast, would break out and form to the right. Behind them was the battalion of artillery, twenty-two guns, and they would form up in the center, still mounted and ready to move forward.

Beauregard pulled out his watch. Six in the morning. At this rate, on this road, it'd be at least three more hours before every last man was up. Too long.

Anxiously, he looked to the north. Jeb's mounted skirmishers were already forward by a half mile, occasional pops indicating that the Yankees were out there and by now had to know what was up.

"Keep moving, boys! Keep moving! In one hour we go in!"

Buckeystown Ford

6:20 A.M.

Sgt. Lee Robinson waded across the stream, marching with his Texans at the head of Robertson's Division, the general just ahead of him on horseback.

The going had been frustratingly slow throughout the n
ight. Move a few hundred yards, halt for ten minutes, double-time for a minute, back to marching pace, then halt again.

It was typical of a night march and had left him and his men exhausted. The road they had been on was open, and some of the regiments had actually departed the road and simply moved across the fields, paralleling it until stopped to wait until first light.

First, though, Beauregard's two divisions had to cross, followed by the battalion of artillery, which clogged the road ahead.

On the far side of the creek he could see the narrow lane that all of them were trying to funnel into. Artillery clogging the road.

Robertson looked at them in frustration. "It'll take hours," he hissed. He turned to his staff.

"Go straight up this slope. To hell with the road," Robertson exclaimed. "Find farm lanes, anything. If need be, just cut across open fields. I want my boys into this fight!"

Minutes later Lee Robinson was given the word.

"First Texans! Right up the hill, now move it!"

They'd done this before. It meant hard marching and climbing, but if it got them in quicker, then that was part of war.

Without complaint, he led his men forward, through the yard of the mill, and then straight up a narrow farm lane and into the woods above.

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 6:50 A.M.

L
ee paced back and forth, unable to contain his nervousness. Pete sat silent by the morning campfire, sipping a cup of coffee. Down below the entire valley was again cloaked in the fog of battle. The day was very still, the air heavy, damp, which held the smoke in place, so that it was impossible to see more than three or four hundred yards. Lee went over to the campfire and sat down. "It should be starting by now," Longstreet offered, breaking the silence.

"Yes, it should be," Lee replied, trying not to sound cross. If Jackson was in charge, as he was at Chancellorsville, he would not be worried, as he was not worried then.

He knew the crossing had started before dawn. A courier had come in an hour and a half ago confirming that.

It was now just a matter of waiting, and waiting was hard this morning.

Grant had outfoxed him on several points. Baltimore was gone, the river was blocked, but in doing these things Grant had left Washington open.

Beat him now, today. Beat him fully, and send him and his men running, and then the promise of that first night at Gettysburg will be fulfilled. All things will still be possible .
..
and the war won.

One Half Mile North of Buckeystown 7:00 A.M.

M
en of the South! Men of the Carolinas, of Georgia, of Alabama and Mississippi. Men of Florida and Virginia. Today is our day!"

Beauregard, standing in his stirrups, trotted down the long double-ranked battle line,' sword held high. The moment was transcendent, his eyes clouding with tears. Never had he seen such as this, an open field, two divisions deployed across a front nearly a mile long, battle flags held high.

"Let history one day record that it was we, we here, who on this day won our independence!"

A wild cheer went up, the rebel yell. Though only those within a few hundred yards could hear his words, that did not matter. All could see him, the cheer racing up and down the battle line, resounding, swelling, deafening!

"Forward to victory!"

Drummers massed behind the center of the line started the beat, a steady roll. Buglers picked up the call, echoing the advance. Beauregard turned to face forward, sword resting on his right shoulder, horse rearing up, and then stepping forward with a noble prance.

Behind the line were arrayed twenty-two field pieces, elevated to maximum. As soon as he turned and started off, they fired in unison, the signal to the assaulting force, and to Lee, that the attack had begun.

The mile-wide battle line began to sweep forward.

Behind them, the exhausted troops of Robertson were just beginning to emerge on the main road, McLaw's men not yet up in place. But he could wait no longer. They had to go in now while surprise was still on their side
...
and victory was ahead.

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna

7.10am

All
were turned, facing south.

They had heard th
e distant report of the massed
volley of artillery in the south. Distant, but distinct above the general fusillade roaring along the river bottom. One of the scouts Ely had sent out was coming up the hill to headquarters, urging his mount on. He reined in before Grant and saluted.

"At least two divisions, sir," he announced. "Sorry I took so long, but I wanted a good look at them, try to count their flags and such."

"Where's Lieutenant Moore?" Ely asked.

"He got hit. Killed, sir, some of them reb skirmishers are damn good shots."

His horse was bleeding from two wounds, testament to the accuracy of fire he had faced while scouting.

"Continue with your report," Grant said quietly.

"Sir. I counted enough flags for at least two divisions. It's Beauregard. I remember seeing him at Shiloh, sir. It's definitely him."

"Just two divisions?"

"No, sir. They were deployed out into a front of two divisions, behind them about twenty, maybe twenty-five guns. But I could see more men coming up from the road, also moving through fields. I'd reckon at least one more division, maybe two. I caught sight of a Texas flag with those men."

"Robertson perhaps," Grant said softly.

"Could not say, sir. Did you hear those guns fire off?"

"Yes, we did," Ely interjected.

"That was a signal. They're advancing. Like I said, two divisions wide, right flank on the river, coming straight up the road from Buckeystown."

The man fell silent and Ely offered him a canteen, which he gladly took and drained half.

"Good report, soldier," Grant said. 'Take care of your horse and get something to eat."

Grant walked away from the scout, Ely following.

"Ely," he said quietly, "send for Ord and Sheridan
now
.
No hurrying about, no panic, but I want them up here quickly."

Grant turned about and walked to the campfire, knowing all eyes were upon him. Everyone at headquarters had heard the report.

He sat down by the cookfire. He was hungry again, and

after losing his first attempt at breakfast he was tempted to try again. This time he'd have to keep it down. Everyone was watching, and if he threw up, all would think it was nervousness and not just the headache. Besides, he'd need food; it was going to be a long day. He sat down, took a piece of hardtack offered by the cook, and chewed on it in silence.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

McCausIand's Ford 8:15 A.M.

U
p, men, up!" Sgt. Maj. Washington Bartlett knew something was happening long before the order was given. The division had deployed just behind the crest of a ridge, a ruined brick farmhouse above, obviously the site of yesterday's terrible battle. Just beyond the ridge a steady fusillade was resounding, the men of Ord's surviving troops engaged just on the other side of the rise. Since deploying, the men had been busy scratching at the ground with bayonets, tin cups, anything to dig out a little protection from the long
-
distance artillery bombardment coming down out of the hill to the left.

A few dozen had been hit, the first blooding of the division, but the men had held steady.

Minutes earlier he had seen Sheridan galloping up from the ford, and the way he rode, flat out, told Bartlett that something big was about to take place.

He quietly worked up his nerve, at one point looking over at John Miller, who returned his gaze, tight-lipped.

"Think we're going in?" Miller asked.

"Well, that general didn't ride over just to ask us how we were doing."

And now the command. "Up, men, up!"

Within seconds, like a giant dark wave, the ten regiments of the United States Colored Troops were up, preparing to dress into line of battle.

"By column of regiments, starting from the left!"

'That's us," Bartlett shouted, and he started to move to the left of the line, the position the colonel said he should assume when they went into a fight.

"By column of companies, to the left wheel, march!"

Surprised, the men looked at each other, not responding at first. They were being ordered to turn about and head back to the ford, away from the fight.

B
artlett looked back. The other regiments were repeating their maneuver, stepping away from what they thought would be their assault position, shifting from battlefront into columns by company front.

Sheridan came back from the front line, still riding hard, one of the white officers of Bartlett's regiment trotting over to meet him.

"Sir, I thought we were going to fight?" the officer cried. "My boys are ready."

"You will fight, damn it!" Sheridan cried. "We're being flanked to the right and rear on the other side of the creek. You are going to have to meet Lee's flank attack head-on. Now get your boys moving!"

Sheridan galloped off toward the ford several hundred yards away.

That stopped the grumbling and a few even offered a cheer as Sheridan rode off.

The officer turned, grim-faced.

"Move it! Back to the ford! Move it!"

From the lip of the crest Bartlett could see small formations of white troops coming as well, running fast.

8:30 AM.

B
eauregard was still out front, now riding with Jeb's troopers, who were deployed in a forward battle line, a quarter mile ahead of the infantry. He turned to look back, the divisions moving steadily, but slowly. It was the old problem of any advance in line versus column. Units were weaving their way through farmyards, woodlots, fields high with corn, open pastures, knocking down fencerows before pressing into the next field.

He regretted now not keeping them in column formation, to shake out into line when the Yankees were in sight, but that could be a problem as well. It could take up to a half hour to shift a divisional column into line of battle, and if they were caught by surprise, especially while trying to change formations, a debacle could ensue.

Also, he did want impac
t. The sight of a mile-wide bat
tlefront advancing could be overwhelming to an enemy force if they were still in column and marching rapidly up to meet them.

Besides, he could not help but marvel at the sight. It was grand beyond anything he had ever witnessed before, a fulfillment of all old dreams of glory to be found in war. He knew it was inspiring to the men as well, occasional cheers still rippled up and down the lines, battle flags to the fore, drummers keeping the beat.

The ground ahead was opening up, broadening out into a vast open plateau. The Catoctin Range was clearly visible, straight ahead, the church spires still standing in Frederick and the town itself becoming visible as well.

A gentle rise in ground was almost directly ahead and to the right of that the creek was bending to the left, the ground leading down to the Monocacy, a long open slope.

'That's the ford over to the McCausland Farm," Jeb announced, "just behind that low rise. We take that and if Ord is o
n the other side, he'll be bottl
ed up. But it don't look that way now."

As he spoke Jeb pointed ahead, straight up the road. They were still a mile off, but he could see a dark column, concealed in dust, moving at a right angle to his own advance,

heading to the west No, they were stopping, shaking out

from column into line.

Beauregard grinned. It was about to begin.

Jeb shouted an order, a regiment of troops, spurring their mounts, pushing forward.

"Maybe we can still catch them while they're moving," Jeb announced.

‘F
orm here, form here!" Sergeant Bartlett ran down the front of the regiment, following his white officers, as the regiment, soaking wet after having double-timed across the ford, began to
swing back out into line of battl
e. Men were breathing hard, some pointing south, exclaiming. "Here they come. God, look at 'em!" "Silence!" Bartlett screamed. "Damn all of you. Come to attention and remain silent!"

The men looked at him, braced themselves. Bartlett caught the eye of the colonel, who nodded his approval.

They had been the first across the creek and were immediately pivoting. Their left was nearly at the stream, the right just about up to the railroad tracks; the next regiment was falling in beside them, and then another and another.

Bartlett stepped a dozen feet forward, first glaring at his men, then curiosity got the better of him and he looked up the line.

It was a grand sight, three regiments already in place, a fourth falling in, extending their front now to a quarter mile. The last of the black regiments from the Second Brigade ran by behind them, and right behind them, the first of Ord's men were crossing the stream.

They were a grim-looking lot. Their uniforms were filthy, some not much better than tattered rags. Their faces were blackened, some with uniform jackets off, others with hats missing. They moved slower, obviously numbed and exhausted, some helping along wounded comrades.

And from the direction they had come, distant gunfire erupted.

An occasional round whizzing by overhead, Bartlett's men involuntarily looking up as if they could see the passage of the ball.

"To the front!"

Bartlett turned.

A cornfield was directly in front of them but the ground sloped up enough that he could see mounted men, about six hundred yards away, coming toward them.

The colonel was studying them intently with his field glasses. He lowered them and looked over at Bartlett.

"Those are rebel cavalry. Forward screen. They'll start opening with a harassing fire, Sergeant. The men are to kneel down, not return fire, until their infantry comes up. I want the first volley to hit them like a sledgehammer."

"Yes, sir."

"Scared, Bartlett?." the colonel asked. "No, sir."

The colonel winked at him.

"I am. Any sane man would be at a moment like this. Remember, Sergeant, courage is being afraid but then doing your duty anyhow. Just remember that and you will do fine."

"Yes, sir."

The colonel slapped him on the shoulder.

"When it starts, I want you close to me. We'll be behind the volley line, directly in the center, same way we drilled it a hundred times back in Philadelphia."

"Yes, sir."

"If I should fall," the colonel said, "Major Wallace will take command. If he falls, then it's up to the company officers and especially you sergeants to keep the men fighting."

"You won't get hurt," Bartlett said.

The colonel smiled.

"I was in every fight with the Army of the Potomac from

Gaines Mill to Fredericksburg, where I got wounded. Believe me, Sergeant, officers fall."

He gave a tight-lipped smile.

"Prove something today,
Bartlett
."

"Sir?"

A minie ball hummed overhead, a puff of smoke erupting from the middle of the cornfield, the shooter invisible. Dozens of more shots ignited, a man in the ranks cursing, dropping his rifle, staggering back, clutching his arm. Men to either side looked at him nervously.