Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 (48 page)

A few Union men wer
e still out in the street, run
ning, and then they saw the gun aimed directly at them. They knew what would happen in a few seconds. Men dodged, threw themselves into doorways and alleyways.

The rebel charge, swarming forward, was gaining momentum until the men up front saw, through the smoke, the muzzle of a three-inch ordnance rifle, not a hundred feet away, aimed straight at them.

‘F
ire!"

Th
e ordnance rifle recoiled with a thunderclap roar, the charge of canister bursting from the barrel. As the first tin cleared the muzzle the tin sheathing peeled back, the fifty iron balls beginning to spread out, deviating to one side or the other, up or down an inch or so for every foot forward; the second can emerged, peeling back, its shot spreading as well. At a hundred feet the spread would be a deadly cone a dozen feet wide.

The impact was devastating, twenty pounds of iron balls, each weighing a little more than two ounces, each traveling at over seven hundred feet a second. A single ball could decapitate a man, tear off an arm, a leg, go clean through a man, tear apart a second, and drop a third behind him.

The entire front of the charge collapsed in a bloody heap.

"Double canister!" Hunt roared.

The swabber leapt forward and ran the sponge down the barrel to kill any lingering sparks. Another pre
-
packaged charge went in, a second tin on top, and was rammed down, crew to either side working the wheels to re
-
aim the gun straight down the street.

"Stand clear!"

The battery sergeant drew the lanyard taut and jerked it.

A hundred more balls tore down the street, plowing like a giant's hand into those not swept away by the first blast. Windowpanes shattered from the blast, glass tinkling down, sometimes entire sheets slashing into a man; canister that had gone wide ricocheted down the narrow valley of the street, bouncing off walls, then tearing into men fifty, a hundred feet, farther back.

"Again, double canister!" Hunt roared.

To the west, from Fourth and Fifth Streets, the guns were firing as well, recoiling. At Third Street the charge was far enough forward that it spilled out onto Main Street, almost overrunning the gun, the crew keeping their nerve. The rammer went down, staff still in the gun, the battery sergeant firing it off anyhow, one hundred iron balls and the ramrod blowing down the street, shattering the charge.

Out of the smoke enveloping Fourth Street a charge began to surge forward again, the men in the fore disbelieving. Victory had been so close, so goddamn close, just past that gun.

An officer leapt out front.

"Home, boys, home!"

He ran straight for the piece, the men at the fore raising rifles, firing, the gun sergeant going down, and half the crew. Grant, startled, realized that a ball had plucked the rim of his hat. He remained motionless.

Hunt shouldered his way in, picked up the lanyard, waited a few seconds, a few maddenly long seconds, the rebel charge getting closer, ready to spill into Main Street, where, if once gained, the rebs would swarm around the gun.

"Look at 'em!" Hunt was screaming. "Can't miss, look at 'em!"

Even as he stepped back, shouting for the crew to jump clear, he jerked the lanyard again.

The rebel major leading the charge disappeared, as did scores of men behind him.

Sickened, Grant turned his back for a moment. He had actually caught a glimpse of a man decapitated, the rebel major, head spinning up into the air, bringing back the nightmare memory of Mexico, a comrade standing next to him, head blown off by a round ball fired by a Mexican battery.

"Double canister!" Hunt roared, wild-eyed. While waiting for the gun crew to reload, he pulled out his revolver and emptied it into the smoke.

Another man picked up the ramrod, shoved the round in, crew forgetting to sponge the piece in the heat of battle. Hunt plucked a friction primer out of the haversack of the dead sergeant, fixed it in place, attached the lanyard, stepped back, and jerked it, another roar, the gun recoiling up over the curb.

"Double canister!"

"Hold, Henry," Grant shouted.

Henry looked back at him.

"For God's sake, Henry, hold fire."

2:00 P.M.

If
ever there was a moment when the vision of all that could finally be had materialized, it ha
d b
een but ten minutes ago. The flags going forward into the town, Stuart's men were going up the slope, the rebel yell was resounding. Now the dream was dying.

He was silent, back astride Traveler, oblivious to the shot whistling by, spent canister rounds whirling overhead. No one was advancing now. Before the front of the town clusters of men were still fighting, aiming up at second- and third-story windows, riddling anyone who leaned out, but in the
sidestreets he could catch glimpses of Union troopers leaning out of windows, firing down.

It was from the streets themselves that the horrible message was now clear. Hundreds of broken men were running back, flags missing or held low, a few officers, hysterical, trying to get in front of the broken formations, urging men to rally, to go back in again.

More artillery fire from within the town, counterpointed by horrific screams.

What had been a surging forward but fifteen minutes ago was collapsing into a rout.

"My God," Lee whispered.

The first of the uninjured to fall back were streaming past him, men silent, walking as if already dead, pulling along wounded comrades, a half dozen men, sobbing, carrying a blanket with an officer in it, McLaw, face already gray in death.

Lee slowly urged Traveler across the front of the retreat. "My men, my men," he cried. "What has happened?" "It was too much."

He looked over. It was Beauregard, riding toward him. "What do you mean too much?"

"You asked too much, General Lee. They had artillery waiting in the town, each street covered with guns, double canister. It was too much."

Lee stared at him, unable to reply. Beauregard rode on.

Lee looked at the beaten, retreating men.

"Can we not still rally?" he cried.

Some of the men stopped, boys of McLaw's old command.

"We'll go back if you want," one of them gasped, and a feeble cry went up. "Order us back in," another shouted.

But even as the small knot gathered around Lee, thousands of men to either side of him were streaming back in defeat.

From the town he could hear a deep-throated cheering, a Union regimental flag defiantly waving from a rooftop, a tattered Confederate flag being held up beside it and then pitched off the roof.

"Can we not still rally?" Lee asked, but this time in barely a whisper.

He looked up toward the slope of the Catoctins. Jeb's boys were giving back as well, artillery farther up the road pounding them hard. They were beginning to draw back.

"General Lee, sir?"

It was Walter, reaching over to take Traveler's reins. "Sir, I think we should withdraw. We are coming under fire here."

Lee wanted to tear the reins out of Walter's hands to turn and madly ride into the town, to somehow retrieve the victory that should have been theirs this day.

"No, sir," Walter said quietly. "No, sir, not today."

Lee nodded and turned away.

"Hurray for the Union! We whipped you damn good!"

Lee stopped. It was a Union soldier down on the ground, his legs shattered, but up on his elbows, glaring defiantly at Lee. His escort circled in closer. One of the cavalry troopers, cursing, half-drew his revolver.

"No!" Lee snapped.

He looked down at the soldier and then dismounted and walked up to him. The boy looked up at him wide-eyed.

"Who are you?" Lee asked.

The boy gulped nervously.

"Private Jenrich, Forty-third Ohio."

Lee knelt down by his side and took his hand.

"Private, I shall pray tonight that you get safely home to your loved ones and that someday we can meet in peace."

Lee stood back up and looked at his men, all of whom were stunned, silent.

He said nothing more, riding on, leaving Private Jenrich who bent his head and sobbed.

The Hornets Nest

L
ee Robinson and what was left of the First Texas gave back, retreating toward McCausland's Ford. Precious few of his one once gallant regiment remained. To the north, through the drifting smoke, he noticed that the sound of battle was falling away into silence, and through the smoke he could see ghostlike figures heading to the rear.

It was a defeat. He had never known such a sensation before, defeat. They had nearly taken the first of the railroad cuts but the damned Yankees just would not give back, not run, not surrender. Was it because they were colored, or because they were Yankees?

Or was it because they were both?

He reached the ford, waded in, splashed the tainted water over his face, and knelt down in it for a few seconds as if it were a cooling baptism to wash away the sins of war.

Standing up, he led his men over the river.

S
ergeant Major Bartlett led the skirmish line that cautiously advanced toward the ford. The regimenf was, in fact, nothing more now than a skirmish line, maybe a hundred men still standing. Sheridan rode behind them, a regiment of white troops spreading out.

Bartlett
scanned the ground ahead and finally saw what he was looking for, the hospital area, and sprinted toward it. It was indeed a charnel house, several thousand men on the ground, many Confederates now mixed in, men left behind by their retreating foe.

He ignored his duty for the moment, his friend John Miller by his side, walking back and forth until he "spotted the regimental surgeon, down on the ground, a Confederate soldier lying on his side, groaning, as the surgeon probed into his shoulder and then pulled out a rifle ball. "Doctor!"

The surgeon looked up and recognized Washington, his features grim. "My son?" "Over there."

His son was lying by the colonel's side as if asleep. Both of them were dead.

Washington stopped, unable to move. Washington felt as if struck. He could not move or speak, then he slowly sank to his knees, gathering the limp body, still warm, into his arms.

Washington started to rock back and forth, cradling his son.

"Sergeant Major!"

He looked up. Phil Sheridan was gazing down at him. "What's wrong?" "My son," he whispered. Phil stiffened and said nothing for a moment. "What's your name. Sergeant Major?" Washington could not reply. "Washington Quincy Bartlett," John Miller said. "I saw you today, Bartlett, the way you held the barricade, rallied the men. Do you know what the Medal of Honor is?" Washington could not reply.

"I'm putting you in for one," Phil said, and he paused, as if adding an afterthought, "and my condolences, Sergeant." Phil rode on.

Washington did not even really hear what he said. All that he had fought for now rested limp in his arms.

It was far too much for Washington, and he dissolved into tears, still rocking back and forth, Miller kneeling by his side.

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 7:00 P.M.

‘W
e have three choices," Lee said softly. "We can resume the assault tomorrow, we can stand, or we can withdraw."

None dared to reply. Longstreet was absolutely silent, staring off. Hood had been wounded in the arm down by the Hornets Nest, and the surgeon had just reported he would most likely lose it. Beauregard, claiming fatigue, had withdrawn to his tent. Jeb, head and arm bandaged, sat across from Lee.

"I say fight," Jeb said softly. "I was within a couple of hundred feet of the heights before the attack collapsed. I still could have taken it."

Lee did not reply directly. He knew Jeb had barely gotten halfway up, losing scores of troopers trying to charge the guns while still mounted.

Lee looked over at Walter and then to Judah.

"Withdraw," Judah Benjamin said calmly.

"Why so?"

"Sir, I am no general or tactician. But the campaign here in Maryland is over."

"We came so close today," Lee whispered, as if in shock. "So close. I could see victory like a golden light above our colors. So close."

He fell silent.

"Grant's army is as badly mauled as ours," Jeb said. "We can finish him tomorrow."

"And how many more armies will be here this dme tomorrow?" Judah said. "Another Confederate army perhaps?"

Lee looked over at him stonily.

"No, there will be no more armies," Lee replied, "no more reinforcements. We are it."

"And how many men are still capable of fighting?" Lee looked over to Walter.

"Sir, there are no clear reports yet. It will take days. Every division was engaged. Robertson is dead, so is McLaw, both their divisions fought out. Beauregard's two divisions in the assault, I'd guess, fifty percent or more lost."

"General Longstreet, your command?" Lee asked.

"Fought out, sir."

Lee looked at him carefully. He had not yet asked why Longstreet had not pushed the attack more boldly from the northern flank and in the center. But he suspected he knew the answer. Longstreet was trying to hold some strength back.

Longstreet finally stirred.

"This army has lost nearly half its fighting strength in the last three days. I suspect casualties will be in excess of twenty-five thousand, perhaps close to thirty. Added to our losses of last week at Gunpowder River and the earlier-losses in front of Washington and at Union Mills and Gettysburg—the Army of Northern Virginia is finished as an offensive force."

He had said it straight out. Bluntly and without tact.

Lee nodded, dipping his head.

"Sir, it is time to get this army south of the Potomac," Judah said, forcing his way back into the conversation.

"And the president's orders?" Lee asked.

"He is not here. I am, sir, and I think that gives me some authority as the civilian representative to order you to do so."

Lee forced a smile.

"To take the responsibility from my shoulders?" he asked.

"If you would let me."

"No, sir, I will not let you take that responsibility before our president. I am commander in the field. I must act at this moment in best accordance with the needs of this army, the main surviving hope of our cause."

"Washington faced wo
rse after Brandywine and German
town," Judah said.

Lee smiled but shook his head.

"He was not facing what I now face."

He sighed and lowered his head.

"Those wounded capable of being moved, with what transport we have left, to be loaded up tonight. Take only those men with good prospects of healing, of returning to the fight. All others to be left behind."

The men around the table stirred. "Walter, we will leave a note for General Grant asking for his charity to our men. I am sure he will comply." "Yes, sir."

"General Longstreet. Can you hold this position through tomorrow?" "Sir?"

"I want Grant to think we are still in position, considering a resumption of the fight. Meanwhile I will take what is left of Hood's and Beauregard's commands and head south, down toward Hauling Ferry, along with our pontoon train."

"Sir, my scouts reported yesterday, and again today, that the Yankees have heavily fortified that crossing."

"We will move with speed. If God is willing, we will launch a surprise attack at dusk and overrun that position. They are, after all, garrison troops. Once the ferry is taken, the pontoon will be laid during the night, I will secure the position, and then, General Longstreet, you will withdraw down to it."

"Yes, sir, I think that is possible."

"Gentlemen," Lee sighed, "if we are finished as an offensive force, so is Grant. We return to Virginia and the war will continue. Perhaps what we've achieved here will be sufficient to overturn the Lincoln administration and victory can yet be ours."

He stood up, the gesture an indication of dismissal, and walked out from under the awning.

The rain was coming down steadily, not hard, just a constant drizzle. Through the gloom and smoke that still clung to the fields, he could see on the far side of the river hundreds of lanterns, bouncing about like fireflies, details of men looking for lost comrades, bringing in the wounded. All was silent except for distant cries of pain, prayers, pleas for help.

He lowered his head.

"My fault, it's all my fault now," he said.