Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 (46 page)

Grim, near to shaking with fear, Sergeant Hazner kept

low, back in the same gully he had been in the day
before when the train exploded. They had been ordered down from their dug-in position an hour ago, to try to force the ruined bridge or, at the very least, to enfilade the railroad cut just west of the depot. A few had made a valiant rush onto the ruined bridge, jostling across broken ties, then trying to catwalk across the stringers in the midsection. Not one had made it.

So they had settled down to a steady, raging fire, adding to the smoke and confusion. The artillery above them pounded the opposite position. The blockhouse, which had guarded the entry into the cut, had finally collapsed in on itself after repeated hits, but even in the ruins the Yankees hung on, firing back.

Men were dropping, but no ground was being gained, no advantage to be found, just a steady wearing down by both sides until finally exhaustion, lack of ammunition, or the fact that there was no one left to fight would decide it.

Headquarters, Arm
y of the Susquehanna 12:40 P.M.

G
rant stood at the edge of town, field glasses raised. The town was directly behind him. McPherson's boys were hard at work, piling up barricades across the streets at the south edge of town.

Looking up toward the pass, he saw only a few wagons coming down. He had ordered all wagons to stay on the far side of the mountain except those bearing small-arms ammunition or artillery rounds.

A few shells were winging over toward the road, fired from a rebel battery deployed out on the left of their line. It was very long-distance fire, but nevertheless an indicator of what would be coming.

Banks's support division was up, filing in with McPherson's men.

Every regiment was now engaged, or soon would be. He had no reserves left. Banks's men up by the National Road were now reporting an assault supposedly led by Longstreet and backed by a dozen or more batteries.

Lee was indeed pushing all out.

Down below he could see the first of Hunt's guns coming back, drivers lashing their exhausted horses, emerging out of the smoke. The artillery fire within the smoke was slackening.

More guns came out, bouncing across the fields, and then he spotted Hunt. He sent a staffer down to lead him in.

Hunt looked like he had come out of a blast furnace, uniform scorched, face bleeding from a blistered burn, an eye nearly swollen shut.

"Sir, beg to report, I had to pull the guns back. We were getting flanked on both sides and nearly out of ammunition. By God, we emptied everything we had into them."

"You did fine, Hunt, held them up an hour or more."

"What a slaughter, sir, never seen anything like it. Worse than Malvern Hill, Gettysburg even. But they just kept coming. No ammunition left. We've been firing continually since just after dawn. I'm sorry, just couldn't get ammunition up fast enough ..."

He bent double, breathing hard, and Grant remembered this man was still recovering from the typhoid.

"Get your guns to the far side of town. Post them up to guard the road to the pass."

"Yes, sir."

Grant walked back and forth along the street that led down to Buckeystown, men to either side of him dragging out tables, fence rails, a busted-up sofa with its owner, behind the two men, howling in protest, anything that could stop a bullet.

A light drizzle was coming down, pleasant at first, cooling, actually cutting the smoke down a bit.

He could see them. They had stopped for the moment, positioned just north of where his headquarters had been. He took out his field glasses and in the diminishing smoke could make out some details.

Three divisions. The one that had overrun Hunt, on the right, re-forming ranks. The second, to the left, the third moving behind the second to reinforce their left. It was taking time, valuable time. Their guns were moving up the road, going ahead of the infantry and swinging out into an open field. In a few minutes they would start shelling him.

He turned to look out across the rest of the field. The Hornets Nest was an inferno. Rebs had it completely surrounded but so far had not closed in for the kill. If anyone would hold it to the end it would be Sheridan. It was tying up a lot of the Confederates.
Those men should be focusing here,
he realized.

To his left gunfire raged along the northern flank. Rebs were across the river just below the National Road, trading long-distance volleys with Banks's men. The rebs had moved a lot of artillery support up on that flank and were heavily pounding the infantry guarding the bridge, perhaps in preparation for a frontal assault directly across.

Grant took it all in. Lee's attack had degenerated into three separate uncoordinated fights.

He could afford to lose the center completely, even if not one man came back from Ninth Corps; they had more than traded their numbers. Banks's fight was almost a different battle, without coordination on their own left. The guns trapped on the far side, if moved over in support of the main attack, might make a difference, for his own artillery had been worn down to exhaustion.

No, it was going to be here, right here, today, that it would be
decided. The three Confederate
divisions deploying out, forming up.
They just might knock me back and secure the Catoctin Road.

He had already decided that if the road was threatened, he would not try to pull back over it. That would turn retreat to utter rout. He'd order the supply wagons on the far side to turn about and evacuate back to Hagerstown, while he extracted the army to the north, following the pike up toward Middleburg and Taneytown.

That would draw Lee after him, even while Sykes came up and Hancock, in his turn, threatened Lee's rear. At some point the combined weight of his three converging forces would outweigh Lee, no matter what happened here in the next few hours.

He felt calm, and he tried to convey that calmness even as the legions below him continued their intricate maneuvers, shifting an entire division to the left of the assault. The first of their guns opened up, solid shot winging in, smashing into buildings at the edge of the town, brick flying, windows shattering.

All he could do now was wait.

With Lee 1:00 P.M.

P
atience,
he thought.
Patience, just a few more minutes to get it right.
Lee remained silent, watching as Beauregard's Division that had been down on the right flank filed behind their comrades drawn up a couple of hundred yards ahead. The maneuver was relatively easy. They had already been formed into battle line, so it was simply a matter of having them face left and start marching. But over a mile of ground had to be covered, over hillocks, through half-trampled corn, pushing over ground devastated by the Yankee artillery that had smashed into McLaw. It was taking time, and the men were tired.

The other divisions had advanced slightly, in echelon to the left, meaning that as they moved they did not advance straight ahead, but rather at a forty-five-degree angle to the left.

Lee was still on the road, Beauregard by his side. The man was fuming, embarrassed that the general commanding had seen fit to come down here to take direct control of his men.

"I still wish we had more," Lee announced and he looked back to where Robertson's men were attempting to storm the railroad cuts. Scales had yet to get across on the other side.

"I ordered Robertson to break off an hour ago," Lee snapped. "He should be coming up."

He turned and looked at Walter.

"Perhaps the message didn't get through," Walter offered. "Then send another."

"Sir, might it not be too late now?" Beauregard offered. "That will take another hour."

Lee looked over at Beauregard and reluctantly had to agree. It was indeed too late now to bring Robertson up, and even if he did, after so many hours of protracted fighting, Robertson would need several hours to rest and refit his men before going into another assault.

"Walter, get another courier down there. Tell Robertson, if he feels he is on the edge of a decisive breakthrough, to go ahead. Otherwise he is to stop the attack. Those people down there are pinned and it is useless to shed more blood trying to dig them out. We can take care of them after we defeat Grant and seize the town."

The long, sinuous column of troops marching behind Lee stopped. All up and down the line they turned and faced right, poised for a straight-in assault on the town about a mile ahead.

The formation was at last as he wanted it. Two divisions wide in the front. Two brigades of each division forward, a third brigade deployed two hundred yards to the rear.

The secondary line, three brigades wide, deployed two hundred yards farther back, behind the reserves of the first line. The guns ahead were keeping up a steady fire into the town with hardly a Yankee gun firing in return.

He wished he could see Longstreet having broken through on the other side, the bridge there taken, his men closing in on Grant from the other side, but there was precious little movement, other than those troops who had forded the stream below the bridge but were being held back.

He could not wait any longer. The tattoo of rain was beginning to pick up. It did not look as if a downpour was approaching, but if it came down any harder, in a few hours movement might be difficult.

He turned in his saddle and his heart swelled.

So it had come down finally to this: a grand assault, in the old tradition of the great charge, to finish the battle. He had broken their right, pinned their center. There were no more reserves for Grant.

Grant's men must be exhausted, all the more so after the pounding and pullback.

Flags were held up all up and down the line. Three divisions, perhaps upward of eighteen thousand men, shoulder to shoulder.

It had all come to this, Gettysburg, Union Mills, Washington, Gunpowder River.
One more charge, one more glorious charge and we break them forever and the war is won.

Win this charge and the enemy behind me will be but an annoyance to sweep away. The men down by the river are trapped. We destroy Grant this day and three days hence we will be in Washington, the war won.

He thought of Arling
ton.
I
could be home in two weeks.

He thought of Shakespeare,
Henry V. Yes, indeed, this might be our Saint Crispin's Day.

Like Napoleon at Borodino the moment had come to break the enemy by frontal assault.

Jeb Stuart was by his side, hat off, grinning.

"General Stuart, you will command the left of this assault. Remember it is echelon to the left, keep obliquing to the left to flank the edge of the town and secure the road. General Beauregard, the right division will go into the town."

"Sir, I object," Beauregard replied haughtily. "Stuart is commanding my division, and I am commanding men I do not even know."

"Sir, it is either that way," Lee said testily, "or I shall command it myself."

"Yes, sir," Beauregard replied carefully.

"I will be with the Third Division and commit them to one of you or the other. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, sir," Jeb said with a flourish, removing his hat. Beauregard simply nodded.

"I am not one for theatrics before the troops, gentlemen," Lee said quietly. "Now go forward!"

Jeb let loose with a wild rebel yell and galloped across the field, his actions a signal that the attack, the attack that would win them this war, was going forward. Beauregard trotted straight up the road.

Drummer boys were up, and began to tap out the long roll. Regimental officers, those still surviving from the earlier fight, stepped forward, extolling their men.

Several minutes later the left division stepped off, Stuart actually out front, waving his hat.

Lee took off his hat and lowered his head.

"Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit and the future of our cause. Thy will be done."

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna

H
ere they come! My God, look at 'em, like on parade!" Men gathered about Grant were up, pointing. The light rain had washed the air of some of the smoke and all could now see a division advancing toward their right. A few minutes later a second division emerged, and then, as if guided by a single hand, the entire advancing line turned and obliqued to their own left, shifting the center of the advance more to the west side of town.

Grant watched silently, nodding with approval at the precision of the movement. They were working to flank him, pull him back farther from the embattled men down at the Hornets Nest, working to envelop the road up to the Catoctin Pass.

"Tell Banks's Division to leave the center of town and shift northwest," Grant announced, not looking back as someone galloped off with the news.

He had fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, before the storm hit. The men barricading the streets, the entrances into the town, had stopped in their labors for a few minutes to watch the approaching wave, but now returned to work with determination, ignoring the shot that still screamed into the town, detonating against buildings, setting a house afire, smashing through eaves, brick walls, and passing clean through clap-boarded homes.

The few civilians who had come down to watch did not need to be told what to do. They were fleeing in panic. One hysterical mother was screaming for her son. A couple of soldiers, laughing, pulled the boy down from his perch in the branches of a tree and handed him, kicking and screaming, to his mother, who ran off, dragging the boy with one hand and slapping him with the other.

"As terrible as an army with banners ..." Ely whispered, coming up to Grant's side.

Grant bit the end off another cigar, cupped his hands to light it, and said nothing.

The Hornets Nest

H
ere they come, boys!"

Phil Sheridan was up among them, having come over on foot from the next cut. Bartlett did not need to be told. This time they were charging straight in at the run. Men leaned in against the barricade. The gunners, out of all ammunition, pulled out pistols, drew short sabers, or hefted ramrods.

R
obinson pushed his men forward, scarcely believing what they were about to do. A few minutes before, a lone courier had come up to Robertson, the division commander, shouting that General Lee wanted him to disengage or finish the position. The courier had then questioned him about the previous couriers.

None had arrived, Robertson shouted. He turned, looked at the Hornets Nest, and then pointed straight at it.

"Let's finish this now!" Robertson shouted. "Are we gonna let it be said that a bunch of darkies beat us?" A terrible roar went up in response. Robinson shook his head. They had been fought to a standstill. A rumor was coming down the line that Lee himself was about to lead the assault on the center of town to finish Grant.
Shouldn't we be there?
he wondered
.
Is there any purpose to this slaughter here other than us killing each other like animals in a frenzy?

But the charge went forward, and, dutifully, he went forward with it. The charge rushed the barricade that was heaped with the fallen from the two previous attacks. Flashes of gunfire rippled on the other side. Robertson was actually in the lead, on foot, pointing forward, and one of the first to gain the top of the barricade.

"Come on!" he screamed and jumped over to the other side.

Robinson slammed in against the side of the barricade, looked up over it, caught sight of a man not ten feet away, and dropped him. Sliding back down, he reloaded. He came back up, men pushing up around him, and was up and over the barricade. In the narrow confines of the railroad cut, it was no longer combat, it was a primal act of murder on both sides. All the hatreds of the war, the causes, the fears, played out. He saw Robertson lunging for a regimental flag, a black sergeant major clubbing him down. Robinson started for the sergeant major, almost was in reach, the black sergeant major turning to face him, screaming with rage, then was shoved back as the man in front of him was bayoneted.

Men were trampled underfoot, screaming, the fighting surging back and forth.

On the Catoctin Road

H
enry Hunt stood with raised field glasses, watching the advance. He felt he would sell his soul now for a dozen limber wagons. His batteries were wearily coming up the long slope, nearly all with empty ammunition chests, and then, as if in answer to his unholy prayer, a couple of canvas-topped wagons came over the ridge and started to slide down pavement that was increasingly slippery from the rain.

In the back of each wagon were two limber chests, a total of two hundred rounds of three-inch ammunition, solid bolts, case shot, and a few rounds of canister.

He ordered two of his batteries to stop, unlimber, and runners to begin fetching the ammunition. It wasn't much, but he could certainly put down one hell of an enfilade into the left of the advancing rebel line. After several minutes, his first gun kicked back with a sharp recoil. He was still in the fight.

Robert E. Lee nodded to the commander of the third division in the assault. The man turned, stood in his stirrups, and pointed forward.

The wave of men set forward and as ordered did their first oblique to the left. Lee rode by their flank as they advanced, staff and cavalry escort around him.

No rifle fire yet from the other side; the head of the advance was not more than six hundred yards from the town. His heart swelled. This could be his Austerlitz, the one battle spoken of so often at the Point. The climactic battle of decision. He could sense it now. All the fighting of the previous two months had at last led to this moment.

S
ir, we'd better get back," Ely announced.

The advancing wall of rebs was now just four hundred yards off. Grant reluctantly nodded, deliberately pacing parallel to his line for a hundred feet so that the men would see him, then climbed up over a barricade blocking a street. These were McPherson's boys. Tough-looking, more than one with a bandaged head or arm, and they looked angry, damn angry.

"McPherson!" Someone screamed. "Remember McPherson!"

The cry was picked up, racing across the front, and it sent a shiver down Grant's spine. Even in death that young hero still led.

It was hard to gain a vantage here to watch the fight or direct it. One of the problems of defending a town was that units were impossible to control once they were into the streets. He was anxious, though, about going to the west side of town. If by chance Lee did seize the town, he'd be cut off from what was left of his command if he was to the west of it.

Ely had already found a place, leading him back one block to the burned-out depot on the east side of town. The telegraphy link there had been reestablished, and to his amazement several reporters were gathered round clamoring for some time on it, one of them from the
New York Tribune.
At his approach they turned and started to shout questions.

He ignored them and followed Ely up a flight of stairs in a burned-out warehouse. Part of the second floor was intact and from there he had an excellent view of the entire assault coming in and the sweep of battle to the east as well.

The Hornets Nest was completely hidden by smoke; to the northeast Banks, to his disgust, had conceded the National Road bridge, but at least was holding the ground above it a couple of hundred yards back. The rebs seemed reluctant to cross, however, for a battery of Napoleons was pounding any who tried to cross.

The rebel advance was down to a couple of hundred yards. Some of the rebels were no longer visible, the buildings before him blocking the view.

A spattering of fire erupted from the edge of the town and then a torrent as regiments stood up from concealment and opened up. The impact staggered the rebel advance, which slowed across a division-wide front, and then thousands of rifles were raised up, then lowered, and a tearing explosion ripped across the plain. A couple of seconds later bits of charred wood and shattered brick exploded around Grant, the reporters and hangers-on down in the street below ducking at the sound.

The fight was now truly on as the rebel's second division, on their left, advanced another fifty yards, slowed, stopped, and fired into.Banks's reserve division, catching some in the flank as they continued to file out of the town.

Within a minute, all ahead was cloaked in smoke, explosions flashing, huzzahs and rebel yells echoing. Never had he witnessed anything like this. Never. Smoking his cigar, hands in his pockets, he waited for the fight to play itself out.

1
:30 P.M.

L
ee continued to ride with the advancing division, ignoring the protests of Walter and others. The charge ahead was stalled; the men had opened fire too soon. Regardless of their losses they should have pressed in to fifty yards or less before firing. Through the smoke he could dimly see where hundreds were falling.

"Straight in, boys!" Lee shouted, and he stood in his stirrups, pointing now to the western edge of the town and the open field beyond.

"Straight in at the double, and remember—home, boys, home is just on the other side of that town!"

He spurred Traveler forward, and with this movement the rebel yell tore down the line, men held rifles up, flags tilted forward, and the charge to cover the last three hundred yards was on.

Traveler suddenly jerked around as if hit, and Lee felt an instant of terror. Their bond was close, going back years, and in so many fights his comrade had never been scratched.

It was Walter, leaning over, jerking Traveler's reins, pulling his head to one side, causing him to slow and stop. Lee glared at Walter. "Let go of me!" "No, sir."

"That is an order!"

"No, sir! Court-martial me after this is over, sir, but no. Your place now is here, sir!"

The cavalry escort had pushed in around Walter, many staring straight at Lee, a few too frightened to do so.

"Listen to him, please, sir," one of them shouted, and that brought on a chorus of agreements for Walter.

Lee found himself suddenly in tears, tears of pride for the gallant men streaming past him, shouting his name as they charged, for the sight of the flag, his flag, held high, disappearing into the smoke, the sight of Jeb Stuart, hat off, waving it high, urging the men forward, even for Walter and the love he showed at this moment.

He lowered his head, nodded.

"You are right, Walter,"

Walter sighed, tears welling up.

"Sir, forgive me. But if we lose you, we lose the cause."

"No, Walter," Lee replied, "the cause is being decided now, by them."

He pointed toward the wall of men surging forward.

In his heart he knew this was the highwater mark. If they could wash over it, all would be won. If not
...
he dared not think of it at this moment.

Behind him, guns were already hitched up, beginning to roll forward, ready to support the breakthrough, the lead piece coming up, slowing, waiting for the infantry ahead to surge into the town and beyond.

1:35 P.M.

A
ll across that front, men of Florida and Alabama, men of Virginia and Arkansas, sensed the moment. They could see it in Lee as they charged forward; they could see it in that gallant cavalier, Jeb Stuart, shouting wildly, waving them on. They could see victory.

Some had been marching since First Manassas or the Peninsula, fought a dozen battles, waded the Potomac many times, and then in June, with such high hopes, had those hopes fulfilled at Union Mills, when final victory was within their grasp. So many, far, far too many comrades who had marched with them, were gone
...
and now the moment of final reckoning.

Others had marched in the West and had known one bitter defeat after another; others had come from Charleston, where the war had dragged on through days of scorching heat and sweltering nights, all to join this legendary and victorious army.

Lee was right, his cry echoing down the line, home, home was just on the other side of this town.

The charge rolled forward, pushing into the reserve ranks of the lines before them, men exhorting each other on, screaming to go, to go, to keep going forward. The reserves joined them, swarming into the main volley line, tripping and leaping over the bodies of hundreds who had fallen in the initial exchange.

"Come on! Charge!"

The wild enthusiasm spread, sweeping the entire front. Once twenty-five thousand before dawn, then eighteen thousand, now barely sixteen thousand, they began to race forward, a tidal wave, officers caught up in the maelstrom, flags of regiments mingling together, an ocea
n of armed men bent on victory.

A
t the barricades, in the ruined houses facing the charge, in the field west of town, Banks's men, tough fighters all, regardless of their dandy leader, saw it coming. They were nearly all from the West and had never known defeat. Or when defeated, they had believed in their hearts it was but a setback of the moment, and tomorrow would set it right.

This was tomorrow. Stand here and it is over. Run and you might live, but run here and there will be another tomorrow in which you will have to face it again or, worse, live out your life wishing you had stood but a few minutes longer.

Officers, some behind, but many now stepping out in front of the men, shouted and pleaded, "Hold, boys! You got to hold! Reload, let 'em get close. Reload!"

Several flag bearers stepped out of the ranks, holding tattered standards aloft, shouting for the men to stay with them, to not leave the colors, and the ranks surged forward a few feet to rally round those colors.

Ramrods were worked down fouled barrels, rifles then raised, some fixing bayonets.

"Hold fire, boys. You'll have one good shot. Hold fire!" The wall was a hundred yards off, now breaking into a run, the ground thundering at their approach, men standing wide-eyed, officers shouting, a few throwing down rifles and turning to run, the rest ignoring them. "Hold now, boys. Hold!" "McPherson!" "Hold!"

A few more seconds. "Take aim!"

Nearly five thousand rifles were leveled, men crowding round each other, those few still in ranks presenting, the second rank leaning in between those in front, in most places just crowds of
men behind barricades or individuals leaning out of shattered windows and doorways, the metallic sound of thousands of hammers being cocked back.