Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 (44 page)

“Texas!"

The men of the Texas Brigade were up on their feet,
pushing through Beauregard's men and starting forward. It was not a mad, impetuous charge. They came on low, crouching, standing up to fire, going down low to reload, weaving forward a few dozen feet, standing to fire again. The range was so close that now, at last, Lee Robinson could see his enemies, maybe thirty yards off, shadowy dark figures, down low, firing back. No solid volley line, they were shredded, but the survivors were hanging on, refusing to budge.

It was going to take the bayonet.

10:20
A.M.

A
courier came up on foot, crouched over, clutching a hand that had taken a bullet. "Colonel!" "Over here!" Bartlett cried.

The courier came up and at the sight of the colonel, still standing erect, he forced himself to rise up and then salute.

"General's compliments, sir. Our right has collapsed. You are ordered to pull back."

The colonel nodded, oblivious to the rebel infantry, shadowy and yet clearly visible not a hundred feet off, flashes of light winking up and down their line.

"Sir, try and get over the railroad and back toward town. But frankly, sir, I think that way is cut off by rebel troops."

'To where then?"

"Along the river and the railroad track. There's a railroad cut 'bout half a mile back—"

He collapsed, shot through the head. The colonel looked around.

"Hardest maneuver," he said trying not to bend over from the pain.

"I'll take care of it, sir." The colonel nodded.

Bartlett went up to the colors, stood up, and looked around. "Men, listen to me! We're pulling back. No panic. No panic. I'll shoot the first man that turns and runs." Men looked over at him. "Load for volley but don't fire!"

Men began to stand up and the sight of it was pitiful. He did not realize until that moment just how many men were down for good. Of the six hundred who had opened fire, barely two hundred and fifty now stood, clustering in close to their flag.

He could hear the rebel yell resounding to his right and now heading toward the rear.

John Miller was down on his knees, and Washington reached down, pulling him up, John wincing.

"Don't stay behind," Bartlett shouted.

John nodded.

"Fall back! Keep your formation, men. Don't run, fall back at the walk!"

He grabbed the colonel, who gasped and went double. "Leave me, Sergeant." "Like hell."

"I'm dying. Now leave me. If you don't, they'll get you, too!"

Washington tried to pull him along. "Damn it, soldier. An order. Leave me!" The colonel straightened up, looked at him, and then actually smiled.

"Good work, soldier," he gasped. "Just take me over to the surgeon. I'll see you later when you come back."

Tears in his eyes, Bartlett realized he could not lead these men out while burdened with a wounded man who could not walk on his own.

He picked the colonel up and carried him over to the makeshift hospital area down in a gently sloping ravine. A hundred or more were on the ground, the surgeon frantically at work. At the sight of his approach the surgeon came to his feet and ran over.

"I'll take him."

Together they helped the colonel to lie down. "Where's my son?" Bartlett asked. "I don't know."

Frightened, Washington stood and looked about. He saw several drummer boys dragging a man with a leg shot off, two more struggling with a stretcher, but his son
...
he could not see him.

"William!"

His voice was drowned out by the roar of battle, the rebel yell as the enemy before them, sensing the pullback, began to surge forward.

"William!"

Someone shoved him. It was Miller, his left arm dangling but his right still strong.

"They're on us!" Miller cried.

Washington looked up. The rebs were already over the position they had held but a few minutes before.

"Sergeant Major Bartlett, act your role," the colonel gasped. "I'm proud of you. Now take command like a soldier."

Washington, fighting back tears, saluted, looked once more for his son and then as the colors passed him, he fell in by their side, then got behind the men, racing back and forth, up and down the line, ordering the men to fire, reload, pull back, fire, reload, pull back.

The rebs swarmed over the hospital area.

10:40 A.M.

S
heridan came up the slope to army headquarters, hat gone, his uniform torn where a ball had plucked his shoulder, barely breaking the skin but now marked by a trickle of blood.

Grant stood silent, cigar clenched firmly in his mouth. 'The line is breaking," Sheridan announced. "I know, I can see that."

"They've split the front. Ord's boys to the north of the road, my division of blacks to the south." He paused.

"General, they fought like tigers. Held them back for an hour and a half."

Grant said nothing, just nodding.

"Sir, my entire corps is about to be flanked, pinned down by the river. Some of Ord's men mixed in. The rest were up on the right of my black division but have given way. Robertson is swinging on to my flank now. Early is crossing the ford and I think Scales is preparing to come down from the heights."

"Hold exactly where you are."

"Sir? They'll have three divisions coming up this road. They're coming up even now. Shouldn't I pull back to block?"

He pointed down the road toward Buckeystown and he was indeed right. What was left of Ord's command had broken, was coming back across the plateau. In a matter of minutes Hunt's batteries, unsupported yet by infantry, would be in the thick of that attack.

"Shouldn't I pull back, support Hunt?"

Grant shook his head.

"That railroad track, the ground around it, turn it into the Hornets Nest like at Shiloh. It will stop Lee cold for hours and he'll bleed out if he turns on it. You take command down there. Let me worry about here."

"It means I'll be cut off."

"Yes, it does," Grant said quietly. "At least for a while. You start moving back, though, and those boys will just keep moving and then start running. That's happened too many times in the past. They are to stand and hold their ground. That is your job. Let me deal with the rest."

"Yes, sir," Sheridan replied.

"You will hold throughout the day. Let him bleed out on you. Do you have extra ammunition?"

"Yes, sir. Twenty wagonloads during the night, about three hundred boxes of a thousand rounds each."

"You got a battery down there as well. Use them to fire down the tracks in both directions. Now go!"

Sheridan forced a grin, turned, and rode off.

Directly ahead, on the road toward Buckeystown he saw a division deploying out, coming forward, a staff officer shouting that it was McLaw.

"Let him come," Grant replied sharply, sat back down, tossed aside his cigar, and lit another one..

10:45 A.M.

Robert E. Lee turned to his old warhorse, Pete Longstreet.

"Attack all along the line, General Longstreet."

"Sir? Beauregard is nowhere near Frederick yet. In fact sir, I think he bungled it. He should have waited for Robertson and McLaw to fully deploy out, hit them with four divisions at once."

Yes, Pete was right on that point Beauregard went in too soon, he should have waited the extra hour. But then again, that had always been a curse to them, to any army in the past attempting to flank a foe by a back road. It could take hours to deploy out into battle formation, and in the interval an opponent could either draw back or prepare. What did surprise him was that Beauregard going into battle formation four miles back, before engaging. He should have gone forward in columns and covered the ground in half the time.

Chancellorsville, in one sense, had played out that way. The first of Jackson's divisions had completed the march shortly after noon, but it was another four hours before he went in. Though the victory was overwhelming at the start, darkness had intervened, and thereby saved the Army of the Potomac.

Nothing of that could be changed now. But Grant's right flank was indeed crumbling. He could see a clear breakthrough opening a breach between the two divisions first sent out to stop him. Up by the National Road, a division of Union troops that had been in reserve position yesterday was now filing back toward the town.

That left but two of Banks's divisions to cover several miles of front. What was left of Sheridan in the center, and Ord on the right, was collapsing.

His original plan, for Beauregard to sweep up the west bank of the Monocacy, literally to have the sleeve of the man at the right of the line brushing the water, apparently was not happening. The position from just back of McCausland's Ford, up to the depot was acting as a breakwater, while Beauregard seemed to be pivoting more to the west with his assault, following the road up to Frederick.

"General Longstreet, push
^-
your men down to the ford just south of the National Bridge. Drive across, open a wedge there. Put every man in. We are not to hold back now. I want every man in."

"Sir," he said and hesitated.

He had rarely seen Lee this agitated, this focused on the moment at hand.

"General Longstreet, did you hear me, sir?"

"Yes, General Lee. It is just that I suspect General Beauregard's assault will stall when he reaches Frederick. The Yankees right down by the stream below us are hanging on. Our original plan was for the divisions on this side to link up with Beauregard as he swept past, thus reinforcing his attack, and our assault would go in on the enfilade against them. What you are ordering now instead is a frontal assault."

Lee turned away from the fight, eyes fixed on Pete.

"We must venture that. I think they are ready to break."

"Sir, that is not the Army of the Potomac over there. That is something different, men used to victory. We must factor that in."

"Then we shall teach them that they can indeed lose."

"Sir," again he hesitated, "I beg you to reconsider. We have lost our base of supply, an enemy force is advancing on our rear even if it is still a few days off. We fight a full-scale battle here, even if we win, we just might lose. We have no reserves; we'll have ten, maybe fifteen thousand additional wounded, and Grant most likely will slip back over that pass and still be a threat."

Lee was silent, gazing at him, and for a few seconds he hoped that indeed he was reaching through, penetrating the fury of battle that was now upon him.

"Order Beauregard to halt. He did not do a good job, but at least he finished what was left of Ord and part of Sheridan. Grant is down to but one corps capable of an offensive. We hold, let him then try to hit back."

"No, sir," Lee snapped angrily. "I want this finished, now, today. This is our chance to defeat them once and for all. Now see to your duty, General Longstreet."

‘W
e hold here!"

Sergeant Major Bartiett looked up as Phil Sheridan rode among their ranks. Most of the men of the Third Division had given ground in fairly good order, but to his shame several of the regiments had broken entirely and run.

Of white officers he saw precious few. Three captains from his own regiment, one of them clutching a head wound, one whom he knew to be a drunkard and obviously drunk now, the third of decent caliber who had kept his company together and in good order but seemed lost in shock.

The rebs had not pursued hotl
y; their fire had slackened as the Third pulled back. Sheridan was pointing up toward the railroad track, to where it edged along the side of a low ridge for several hundred yards, with several cuts through the low ridge for the grade. There was a thick cloying scent in the air; the ground about the cut had a scattering of bodies that had been out in the heat for two days. They all looked as if they had on uniforms two sizes too small, bodies swollen, knees drawn up, one with both hands clenched and raised.

To his right he saw the piers of a bridge about a hundred yards upstream, smoke curling from collapsed timbers still protruding above the water.

"Rally along the railroad track, boys," Sheridan cried. "You hold the west end, the rest of the corps the east end. And you've got to hold!"

Bartlett led his men as they scrambled up onto the track and looked around. There was a shallow railroad cut. Good protection if hit from the river or from the north, but if the rebs came straight in from the west, it was bad ground.

'Track and ties, boys!" someone shouted. He wasn't sure who said it, but within seconds a couple of hundred men were at work. There were no tools, though, men prying at the spikes with bayonets.

Some of the black soldiers waded in, shouting they knew what to do. The Baltimore and Ohio's rails were bolted together, and on the outside of the track, at the joint, a wooden block was wedged in to keep the joint tight. A heavy sergeant took the butt of a musket and started to hammer on the side of the wooden wedge. It began to move. Several more joined in, working in unison. The wedge popped out. Up and down the line men were popping the wedges. The sergeant ran along the track, grabbing men, shouting for Bartlett to get his boys, three or four to each tie on one side.

Seconds later, with more than two hundred men lifting and pushing, the track with ties still attached rose slowly, the rail bending. Bolts popped and the long section of track rose up and crashed over. Men swarmed over the torn-up section, prying loose the six-foot-long ties, tearing them free, running them up, and stacking them across the open end of the cut; others came up with twisted pieces of rail, tossing them on.

A company of white soldiers from farther up the line came to them, carrying pry bars and wrenches, a shout of joy going up among the men around the sergeant directing the operation.

"You boys need help?" one of the white soldiers shouted, holding up a wrench.

"I was a Reading Railroad man," the black sergeant shouted, and the white soldier slapped him on the shoulder.

"Could see you knew your work. Erie Railroad here."

The few precious tools were passed around, easing the job, the sergeant directing men to unbolt sections of track. The barricade, though low, had to span over thirty feet. Gradually, it was beginning to build up. Men scooped up ballast with their bare hands and threw it over the barricade. Others started to drag ties to the top of the cut, to give a little more protection and to make them the perfect height for a rifle rest when lying down.

"They're coming!"

The few men who had the stomach to remain behind as skirmishers came running down the track. Their approach was announced as well by a rebel volley that tore straight down the ravine, dropping half a dozen men.

"My men over here!" Bartlett screamed. "Rally to the colors, men.

A white officer came up. He didn't recognize the man, a colonel.

"Sergeant, where're your officers?" He looked around and recognized no one in the confusion, the bustle of men working to tear up the track. "I don't know, sir."

"Take your colors. Plant them on that barricade and hold it!"

Even as he spoke there was a loud clattering, a shouting to clear the way. A field piece, a bronze twelve-pound Napoleon, was being moved up the track, crew shouting for the men to clear back.

The ravine was so narrow that the crew stopped at the eastern entryway, unhooked their piece, and swung it around, beginning to drag it forward by hand. Bartlett could see where it was going to be positioned, and he shouted for his men to pitch in, even as he approached the barricade with the color guard. Sergeant Miller, arm in a rough sling, was still with them, features gray, but he was hanging on.

With men pushing from all sides the Napoleon was run up to the barricade. The team that had pulled it up were backing up to open ground where they turned their horses around. Men unhooked the limber box, nearly half a ton of weight, and manhandled it down, dragging it the length of the ravine and depositing it ten yards back from the gun. The team took off.

Bartlett's men fell in on either side of the gun crew.

"What are we facing?" a gunner asked.

"Texans I heard," Bartlett replied.

"Oh, lordy," the gunner sighed. "You boys, stick to us like ticks on a dog."

"We will."

"They're coming!"

He could hear them now, the high-pitched yelping. The smoke had cleared just enough that they were visible, a couple of hundred yards off, a line astride the railroad track, spread a couple of hundred yards to either flank, red banners to the fore.

He looked back. Up and down the railroad cut for as far as he could see men were up against the embankments; a roar was thundering back from the east end, down by the river. From what little he had learned so far in the army, he knew their position was a bad one. They were like a long thin line, men almost literally back-to-back along the railroad line. The rebs coming at them had them at a right angle. Other rebs were swarming around to either side; from the far river-bank long-range shot and shells were beginning to rain in.

They were cut off, surrounded.

Someone slapped him on the shoulder, and he turned. A young white soldier pushed two packs of cartridges, ten rounds in each, into his hand. Behind him half a dozen other white soldiers had laid down two wooden cases of ammunition. One had already pried it open with a bayonet, torn off the tin waterproof cover, and was piling out ten packs of cartridges, men coming over to scoop them.

We're going to need every round,
Sergeant Major Bartlett realized.

"Case shot, one-second fuse!"

The gunners were well practiced, a young boy running up bearing the shell, which was rammed home.

"You colored boys, stand back!" a gunnery sergeant yelled, even as he stepped back from the piece, his lanyard taut.

He jerked the lanyard—an explosive roar, the Napoleon kicking back several feet. The shell detonated directly ahead of the advancing line, dropping several. A man was screaming on the other side of the gun, clutching a crushed foot, the gun having gone over it.

"I told you to stand back!" the sergeant screamed.

"Case shot, one-second fuse!"

The rebel advance stopped. He could see them raising their pieces up, then bringing them level. "Down! Get down!"

A second later the volley swept the front of the barricade, minie balls striking iron railing, railroad ties, snapping through the flag, and striking men as well.

"Aimed fire, boys!" Bartlett shouted. "Careful aiming. Now give it to them."

The fight was on again. Seconds later the Napoleon fired, the shell disappearing into the smoke. To his horror, Washington Bartlett realized at that moment that his son, if still alive, was somewhere over there, in the direction they were shooting. Any round going high was most likely plowing into the hospital area.

He raised his own rifle, aimed very low, and fired.

10:55 A.M.

O
h, this is beautiful, just beautiful," Henry Hunt exclaimed as he paced behind the new line he had just set up, facing south. He ignored the enfilading artillery fire coming from across the river, which had already dismounted or struck down two of his guns.

It was the target before him that counted.

The last of Ord's broken men had streamed past his position, and now, four hundred yards out, an entire division of rebel infantry was coming straight at him. He had over sixty guns lined up. Not as many as Malvern Hill, but more than Gettysburg.

He had full faith in his gunners. They had proven themselves yesterday in the bombardment of the McCausland Farm. And now they had infantry before them, a beautiful wide target spread out over a half mile. Three brigades in the lead, two more a hundred yards behind. And behind them another division four hundred yards
farther back, struggling to re
form after their initial clash earlier in the morning.

"Fire!"

This was not a single salvo. He had ordered his battery commanders to carefully check aim and elevation and make every shot count.

The guns directly in front of him went off. Seconds later more opened up, the last firing maybe thirty seconds later. Commands were being shouted, "Case shot, two-second fuse!" "Roll 'em up, boys." "Sergeant, check that elevation screw. Raise it half a turn!"