Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03
Page 13
The memory of her was sobering. He could see in her his own mother and sisters. Such women were always there after the fight, to clean up the wreckage after the armies moved on, to hold hands late at night as boys continued to die, long after the gods of war had gone elsewhere in quest of victims.
Taneytown itself was a scene of utter wreckage—homes burned, crops trampled down and rotting, civilians silent and sullen as he rode in.
They had passed a regimental graveyard, a rough-hewn plank marking it as men of the Twentieth Maine. He had heard of their stand and annihilation by Pickett. Over three score were buried there, shallow graves that had washed out in the rains, and then been scavenged by wild pigs and dogs. The sight sickened him. Rotting blue fragments of uniforms, a skeletal hand half raised out of a grave, an overturned wagon, burned out, broken remnants of ammunition boxes littering the field.
Waste, nothing but damn waste. Is this where I shall be a month from now? he wondered. He wondered as well what his men thought as they trotted across the battlefield, silent, grim faced.
As he dismounted before the mansion, he looked about. Supposedly, both Meade and Lee had used this mansion during the earlier campaign. He walked up the steps of the mansion, knocked on the door, and waited. No one answered at first until finally, after a long minute, a black servant opened the door.
"May I use your home?" Phil asked. 'The owners aren't home."
"I just need to use your top floor for a few minutes," Phil said politely.
The servant opened the door and let him in.
"Sir, is there gonna be fighting around here again?"
"No. We're just riding through."
"General Lee used this is as his headquarters during the last fight. It was terrible, sir, the fighting around here."
The servant pointed to broken windows, covered over with pieces of paper, bullet holes pocking the side of the house facing the town, a shattered eave struck by a shell.
"Don't worry. We're just riding through."
As he walked down the corridor to the main staircase Phil saw that whoever owned this place had simply left. Bits of paper still littered the floor. A table in the room to the left rested in the center of the room, chairs drawn up around it, a map marked with penciled lines still there, as if Lee and his staff had departed only minutes before.
"I'm the only one here to look after the place," the servant said apologetically. "Been meaning to get around to cleaning all this up."
The opposite parlor across the hallway had obviously been used as a hospital. Carpets and walls were stained with dried blood, furniture was upended and piled in a corner, the room still having a lingering, sickening smell to it.
He bounded up the stairs, going to the third floor, then scaled the ladder up to the cupola, Sergeant Lucas behind him.
Breathing-hard, Phil uncased his field glasses and looked back down the road he had just traversed with his small company. Behind him, not three miles away, was a column of Yankee troopers. Not a company or regiment, it had to be a brigade or more the way the dust swirled up behind them, clear back to the horizon.
"Custer?" Lucas asked.
"Yup. It's gotta be him."
"Driving damn hard," Lucas said.
'That's George," Phil said drily.
He remembered many an afternoon, George and he, out for a ride after seeing to their duties as cadets, trotting along the heights overlooking the Hudson, talking about all their hopes and dreams of glory. The war was still ahead, the arguing and shouting of politicians of no concern to them during those wonderful days but four years ago. Their talk instead was of what it might be like out on the great prairies of the West, with endless horizons ahead of them, or perhaps a posting to California or Charleston and the lovely belles that might await them there.
He smiled with the memory, how on so many nights, after lights out, they'd lighted a candle concealed behind a blanket and he'd sat up with George, reviewing yet again plane geometry or French, trying to coax his roommate along, to keep him, last in his class, from flunking out.
On those rides together George would inevitably challenge him to race, and off they would gallop together, George usually winning and teasing him about the legend that southern boys could always beat a Yankee on horseback.
So now we are in race again, old friend, Phil thought as he raised his field glasses and scanned the horizon, but this time, I have to beat you at it.
He scanned the horizon. The day was clear, no haze. Taking out a map, he propped it against the windowsill, orienting himself. The hills to the north must be Gettysburg, the South Mountain range beyond. He scanned that way. Nothing. No troop movements, at least on this side of the range, but what was happening beyond it? Well, that was a mystery.
Looking toward Gettysburg he thought he caught a gleam of reflected light, perhaps some dust. Infantry? It was impossible to tell.
George, though, was obviously driving southwest, coming straight at him. If so, what was his goal?
Shadow the east side of the mountains? Why moving so fast? If he was to provide a screen for the advancing infantry, they'd still be a dozen miles back. Was he heading for some objective this way? Phil traced a finger down the map.
Frederick?
Why there, if the bulk of the Union army, as seen by the patrol by Syms, was now north of Hanover? He had sent Syms and a dozen men back north even as they had pulled out of Hanover to try to identify a unit, but so far nothing had been heard from them. He feared Syms was most likely lost.
Frederick. Push hard and he could be in there by tomorrow morning. Block the pass or perhaps take the railroad.
A distant line of skirmishers emerged along the road back to Littlestown, advancing at a trot. Now less than two miles away. In another fifteen minutes they'd be into the town.
Give them a punch here? he wondered. Leaning out of the cupola he looked down at his ragged command. They had been retreating for nearly two days. Horses were blown, half a dozen men left behind because of a thrown shoe, a mount collapsing.
No, he had to keep pulling back until Stuart sent up reinforcements.
"We keep moving, Sergeant Lucas," Phil said bitterly.
The two raced down the stairs, ignoring the servant, who, amazingly, had actually made up some tea and had it waiting for them.
Coming back out on the porch Lucas shouted for the men to remount and get ready to move.
Duvall leaned against a porch pillar, casing his field glasses, dreading the thought of getting back into the saddle. He had been riding since dawn, was exhausted, and just wished for an hour of uninterrupted sleep.
A clatter of hooves echoed, some of his men turning, raising carbines or pistols, looking toward the road from the mansion back into the village. They relaxed at the sight of Lieutenant Syms. His mount was lathered, foaming, Syms's features pale as he reined in, grimacing with pain.
"Can't believe I found you here," Syms gasped, leaning forward in his saddle, breathing hard.
"You look like hell," Duvall said.
Syms smiled weakly and fainted. Lucas went to his side to help him out of the saddle. Half a dozen willing hands came to his side, carrying him up to the porch of the mansion.
Syms opened his eyes and looked around in confusion. The servant from the mansion knelt by his side and gently held a cup of tea to his lips. Syms took a drink and nodded his thanks.
"Where are the rest of your men?" Phil asked.
"Dead, captured, or played out." "What did you find out?"
"I must have ridden fifty miles since dawn. Circled around Custer's men. By God, are they moving fast!" "I know."
"We hit a Yankee infantry column about twenty miles north of here. Phil, it's a sham, all a sham." "What do you mean?"
"We came over a rise and there they were, a column marching on the road, not even any skirmishers forward. Scared the hell out of me. I mean we were less than fifty yards away when we ran smack into them."
He grinned weakly.
"We ran them down, took a dozen prisoners, the rest of them just disappearing, jumping fences, throwing their rifles and packs away, running off into the woods and across the fields. Hell, if I had fifty men, I could have bagged five hundred."
"Militia?"
"You're damn right. Nothing but militia. If it wasn't so funny, I'd of been disgusted with 'em. One of them, a lieutenant, cried like a baby and spilled everything when we threatened to shoot him."
"My God, you didn't!" Phil said.
"Hell, no." Syms grinned weakly. "He said all the boys in his division were in the army for ninety days to avoid the draft. The entire army was just like him. They'd been lying about Harrisburg for weeks. Just hating Grant's men who lorded it over them. Grant's boys are moving to the west, behind the mountains. These boys, under Couch, crossed the river by ferry down at Wrightsville. Supposedly close on to twenty thousand of them. They were even told they wouldn't have to face a battle, just march about for a week or so."
Phil sat back on his heels.
"Damn all."
The realization hit. McPherson's men, tough veterans, had crossed at Harrisburg. If they weren't in front of him, that meant they had to be on the road over the other side of the South Mountains.
It was fitting together. Custer makes a dash to seize the pass at Frederick; McPherson comes through with the rest of the army behind him.
'The rest of your men?" Phil asked.
"We got jumped riding through Gettysburg on the way down here looking for you. Some troopers from your friend's brigade."
He seemed to drift away for a moment, then sighed. "I had to leave my men behind, Phil. I had the best mount. The boys even told me to ride for it and carry the news back to you. My boys, they're dead now or prisoners. They turned back to fight while I rode off."
Phil knelt by his side, holding his hand, and shook him slightly.
"Look at me," Phil said softly, and the lieutenant gazed up at him.
"Are you certain of this report? The entire army north of us is militia?"
"That's what the prisoners we took told us. They were scared. Hell, I hated to do it, but I had a cocked gun to the lieutenant's head and said I'd blow the man's brains out if the others lied. We kept them separated, then brought them up before the lieutenant one at a time, and they all said the same thing. One of 'em even identified the four corps marching with Grant—McPherson, then Burnside, then Ord, and finally Banks. That poor lieutenant soiled his britches, he was so frightened."
"Wish you'd brought him back."
"Couldn't. So we just told them to strip naked—they thought we were going to shoot them—and then we sent them running with a few shots over their heads."
Syms chuckled at the memory.
He laid back, breathing hard.
Phil put a hand to his forehead. Syms was burning with fever. He looked down at Syms's right leg, hit the day before. The man had been riding with his boot off. Leaning over, Phil sniffed the bandage and suppressed a gag reflex.
Lucas was up by their side with a blanket, and the black servant was on the porch, bringing a pillow and blankets as well.
"Lieutenant, why don't you rest here awhile," Phil said softly. He looked up at the servant.
"I'll take care of him, sir," the servant said quietly. Syms didn't argue.
"I'm played out, Phil. Just played out."
"Custer's boys will take care of you."
"Hate to lose the leg. Damn me. Sally sure did like to dance. I can't picture her marrying a cripple."
"You'll be dancing soon enough," Phil lied. "And besides, she loves you and will be honored to marry you." This time he spoke the truth, his voice choking.
Syms forced a smile.
Phil stood back up, looking at his men.
Their mounts were blown, and in this region finding new horses would be impossible. It had been picked over clean the month before.
They'd have to ride with what they had.
"Let's go," he said quietly. He'd have to find someone to push ahead, to get down to the nearest telegraph outpost and send the word of what was happening here. That might take hours.
Sadly, he looked back at his old comrade that he was leaving behind.
He pulled out his notebook, opened it, and scribbled out a quick message.
To General George Armstrong Custer,
As a favor to your old roommate. Please take care of my friend. Lieutenant Syms. He is an honorable soldier of the South. After the war he plans to marry my sister Sally. When all this is over, I look forward to a chance to see you again under less difficult circumstances.
Yours truly, Phil Duvall Class of 1861
He handed the note to the servant, then tore off another sheet, jotting down his report.
"Sergeant Lucas, find someone with the best horse. Have him ride to Westminster."
"Sir?"
"The telegraph station there might still be open. If Custer is driving southwest toward Frederick, they might be bypassing that place. Tell the courier to ride like hell."
Lucas took the note, walked down the line of mounted troopers, picked one out, handed up the note, and the man was off at a gallop.
There was a rattle of carbine fire at the north edge of town. He caught a glimpse of some Yankee troopers. A few rounds hummed overhead.
"Let's go," Phil shouted, mounting up and turning to look back one last time at his old friend, who weakly raised a hand in salute.
The small column turned and rode off, heading toward Frederick.
Baltimore, Maryland
August 24 6:30 P.M.
General Lee rode alone through the early evening, long shadows descending on the camps that ringed the west side of the city. The days were getting shorter, a touch of a cooling breeze was a welcome relief after a day of heat. Campfires were flaring to life, men standing about them.
There were snatches of laughter, a banjo and hornpipe playing, a few of the more energetic men dancing to the tune. The air was rich with the scent of fresh roasting meat. Each regiment had been given a bullock or a couple of pigs for dinner, and the meat had been roasting throughout the afternoon.
Several of the regiments were planning evenings of entertainment, amateur skits, song and dance presentations, a minstrel show, and a theater group from Baltimore was appearing before the boys of Scales's Division with a presentation of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, starring one of the Booth family, John Wilkes, as Brutus. He wished he could attend but was pressed by other matters.
As he wove his way through the camps, men who saw him approaching lined the road, cheering, taking off caps and holding them high, officers with a flourish drawing swords to salute. A young lady, visiting one of the camps, actually stepped in front of him, blocking his path, and offered up a bouquet of flowers, which, a bit embarrassed, he took and then, once out of her sight, handed to Walter Taylor, who trailed along behind him.
He was taking his ride for several reasons. One, of course, was to be seen by the men. The second was to see them, to evaluate their spirits after the grueling efforts of the previous weeks, and the third was just to have time to think.
He could see that though the men were tired the morale of his army was as good as ever. They had known nothing but victory since Fredericksburg. After but a single day of rest their spirits were returning, though in one sense that was deceiving. He had spent most of the day reviewing with his three corps commanders the muster returns. Dozens of regimental and brigade commanders again needed to be replaced. Promotions by the dozens would have to be written up. Many regiments were now commanded by captains, companies by sergeants. If given time, he would most likely break down Pickett's Division and reassign the remnants to beef up Scales, whose division he was now passing.
Scales had been out of the fight, shadow
ing Washington, but he had been ordered north to Baltimore. Lee sensed that every rifle would be needed and that division, the remnants of Pender and Pettigrew, having sat out the last fight, would now be his vanguard when the time came to move. Besides, the sham of threatening Washington was past.
It was Grant whom he wanted now. It all rested on that, one sharp action with Grant. Lure him into an action as decisive as Union Mills or Gunpowder River—break him, and in breaking him, break Lincoln as well. Finally, leave the stubborn Illinois lawyer with no choice but to accept that he could not coerce the South.
He stopped under a spread of elms canopying the road, loosening his reins, Traveler moving to the side of the road to nibble at some tall grass growing along the fencerow. A steady stream of traffic moved by in both directions, a company of troops marching by, a couple of supply wagons heading back into the city, a drover leading half a dozen cattle. Lee's staff kept a respectful distance, whispering for those passing to let the general have a few minutes alone, and all obeyed the request, the passing column of infantry silently coming to present arms as they marched by.
He dismounted, going over to lean on the fence, looking out over the encampment that spread out across the open fields outside of Baltimore. More fires -were flaring up, cheers erupting from where Scales was camped. Most likely the acting troupe had arrived, a circle of torches being ignited to illuminate the stage where the story of Caesar would be enacted.
He felt that the clock was now ticking. He wished for nothing more than "to give these men a few more days like this. Plenty to eat, time to sleep as much as they wanted, to write letters home, to horseplay, to forget for a brief moment what they had been through, and to ignore what faced them again.
An inner sense told him, though, that such would not be the case. This was a last night of peace, a single night of peace before it would all start again.
He bowed his head.
"Dear Lord, please guide me in the days to come," he whispered. "Give me strength to do what is right. Guide me always to seek the honorable path and in so doing bring this terrible struggle to an end.