Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03

by Newt Gingrich; William R Forstchen

  "Don't bother me with that now. I want to know what the hell is going on with these locomotives!"

  "Sir. The boilers were dead cold. We had to get them fired up. It's taking time to build up a good head of steam."

  "How long?"

  "Another hour at least."

  Even as they spoke Custer turned in his saddle to look back toward the river where a different sound had just mingled in with the cacophony of battle—artillery fire.

  A couple of dozen men were gathered around the locomotives, cavalry troopers, one of them a corporal, obviously having taken charge, shouting orders. Custer rode up to him, and the corporal saluted.

  "Who are you?"

  "Tyler, sir. Rick Tyler, First Michigan." "Why are you here?"

  "Was an engineer for three years before the war. Heard the word you needed railroad men up here, sir, so came up to help out."

  "You're in charge then, Tyler, and I'm promoting you to sergeant. Will make you a lieutenant if you pull this off. Now why is it taking so damn long?"

  "It's a cold start, sir. Got to get into the firebox, build a fire from scratch, start shoveling wood in. Then heat the water to a boil, build up steam pressure. It ain't healthy, but I'm throwing some coal oil in to get it going faster."

  "Coal oil?"

  "We're in luck, sir. Found five hundred gallons or more of it, sir, in that warehouse over there. We're going to put it all in the passenger cars pulled by the trains. Also found some turpentine, barrels of grease as well. That will really let go."

  "Any blasting powder?"

  "None to be found, sir. We've been asking around, but folks here say it was all cleaned out by the armies passing through. Also, sir, found a third locomotive in that engine shed over there. It's an old teakettle, twenty years old at least, but we're firing that one up as well."

  "At least an hour, then?" Custer asked, and even as he spoke he fought down the light-headedness overtaking him.

  "Sir, to be honest, two hours, but I'll push it. We need a damn good head of steam if you want to do it right."

  "Why's that?"

  "Well, sir. Figure once we get the train on the bridge I can smash down the safety valves. The fire in the passenger cars, they'll burn, but it will burn up, sir, not down. It might damage the bridge but they can still fix it. I seen that happen once with a string of boxcars just outside of Detroit that caught fire on a bridge. The bridge was back in service the next day. We get the boiler to explode, though, and, well, sir, that'll be a helluva show."

  "Good work," Custer said softly.

  "General?"

  He looked over to Schultz, a regimental surgeon from the Fifth who was by his side. "Let me look at that arm." "Not now."

  "Sir, looks like you are about to keel over,"- the surgeon replied. "Just give me five minutes, sir."

  Custer nodded reluctantly, and with a grimace dismounted, sitting down on a bench under the awning of the station. Schultz helped Custer take his uniform jacket off, Custer cursing softly. The doctor bent over, examining the entry wound a couple of inches below his left elbow, an assistant by his side handing him scissors, which he used to cut the shirt back.

  "This is gonna hurt, General," the doctor whispered, and then there was a flood of pain as the doctor slipped his finger into the wound.

  He thought he was about to faint. The doctor drew his finger out.

  "Got some bad news for you, sir. The bone's broken. Sir, I think you're going to lose that arm." "Like hell I am," Custer hissed.

  "Sir, I can have you under in five minutes; it'll be over in ten. From the way you're bleeding I think an artery is severed in there. You'll bleed out if I don't take it off now."

  "I've got a battle to run, damn you."

  "Not today, sir. You'll be back in action in a month, sir, but today is finished for you," the doctor said gently.

  "Tie it off."

  "What do you mean, sir?"

  "Just that," Custer snapped. "Get a tourniquet on it. That will stop the bleeding, won't it?" "For a while, but why?"

  "Because I've got to get back to my command."

  "Sir, I put a tourniquet on that arm, it'll be above the elbow, and you'll lose that, too, if it stays on too long."

  "Just do it, goddamn you. Get a tourniquet on it. You can hack at me once this is over."

  The doctor stared at him intently for a moment, then reluctantly nodded, actually patting him lightly on the shoulder. He motioned to his assistant, who set to work, taking a tourniquet out of the doctor's medical bag, wrapping it around the general's arm just above the elbow, then clamping it down so tight that Custer struggled not to cry out.

  The flow of blood slowed and then nearly stopped.

  The assistant rigged up an arm sling, helped put it on the general, who sat back, pallid.

  "Promise, once this is over, you'll come straight back to me," the doctor said.

  "Sure," Custer said, forcing a weak smile, looking up at him.

  "I can give you a little morphine for the pain."

  "Addle my mind. Just a good shot of whiskey will do."

  Several of the troopers who had gathered round to watch reached into pockets and haversacks, pulling out bottles. Custer grinned, took one of the bottles, knocked down a good long drink, and then rose shakily to his feet.

  He had not commanded these men long, and he knew some resented him and his meteoric rise to command. But by God this was his day now. It was almost worth losing an arm for. A week from now the illustrated papers would be plastered with images of him, arm in sling, leading a charge, bridge blowing up in the background. It could very well mean a second star.

  "Help me up."

  Again more eager hands reached out, helping him slip his jacket on, then up into the saddle.

  "Get a report down to me, Tyler, once you're ready to roll. Until then I am going to keep Stuart and his rebs off the bridges."

  "Yes, sir."

  He turned and galloped off.

  "You know I used to hate that son of a bitch," one of the troopers said, "too much glory seeking, but, damn me, he sure has the stomach for a good fight."

  One Mile North of Boonsborough, Maryland 9:45 A.M.

  Riding as he always did at the head of his column Gen. James McPherson, commander of Seventeenth Corps, Army of the Susquehanna, saw the swirl of dust ahead, two troopers riding hard as they came out of the village. They had slowed for an instant as they approached his advance line of mounted skirmishers, several of the skirmishers then falling in by their side to lead them in.

  McPherson urged his own mount to a quick trot and forged ahead to meet them at the edge of town. The troopers, their mounts snorting, lathered with sweat, reined in, saluting, the men gasping for breath. "General McPherson?" "You have him."

  "Thank God, sir," one of the troopers gasped. "Afraid we'd kill our mounts if we pushed them much farther." "What's your report?"

  "Sir, we're with General Custer's Brigade. He's in one hell of a fight just east of Frederick, facing two or more brigades of rebel cavalry." -

  "What is Custer doing there?" McPherson asked. Though he had no details of what was supposed to be happening east of the Catoctins, his information was that the cavalry was to slowly push south, acting as a deceptive screen to keep Lee's attention focused north until his corps gained the pass and were into Frederick.

  "Sir, yesterday," a trooper gasped, "the general got word

  the rebs were moving a pontoon train through Frederick. He decided to get there first and block the bridge over Monoc-acy Creek. We got there just minutes ahead of a whole swarm of rebs. Sir, he's asking for infantry support."

  "The railroad bridge there—what is it made of?"

  "Wood, sir. But the creek's only a hundred yards wide or so. Doubt if we can get a fire burning on it; anybody steps out on it is bound to get shot."

  "Artillery?"

  "None, sir, we left it behind in the dash down to Frederick." "Which rebel brigades?"

  "Don't know, s
ir, but I can tell you, as I was riding up over the pass through the Catoctins, I looked back. That whole riverbank a mile wide was just swarming with them. You could see a lot of dust in the distance, maybe infantry, maybe more cavalry. I couldn't tell."

  McPherson nodded, still studying the map. Twelve miles at least to Frederick. He looked east. The high expanse of the South Mountain range was only a couple of miles ahead, a tough climb.

  "The road ahead?"

  "It's the National Road, sir, well macadamized. Tough on the horses, though. Mine was going lame. About six miles across the next valley and then up over the Catoctin Pass."

  Custer had certainly triggered something. If Lee takes the bridges, then blocks the pass, Grant's plan unravels.

  He didn't hesitate any longer with his decision. He turned and looked back. His massive column, fifteen thousand men, was visible for miles back across the valley, dust swirling up, morning light glinting off shouldered rifles, white canvas tops of ammunition wagons and ambulances standing out.

  They'd been marching since before dawn, having already covered nearly ten miles. He was planning for them to break in another hour to cook up their midday meals.

  He looked back at the troopers. "If I get you fresh mounts, can you guide me?"

  The two hesitated, then nodded. McPherson turned to his staff.

  "Pass the word to every regimental commander. I want the men pressed. Three miles to the hour, ten-minute break to the hour and not a minute more. No straggling, provost guards to keep them moving until they drop on their faces. I want this column moving and moving hard. Round up my headquarters guard detail and find fresh mounts for these two boys. I'm going up to Frederick. I expect to see this column crossing the Catoctin Pass no later than midafternoon. Do you understand me?"

  "Sir, it looks like hard pushing getting over those mountains," one of his men said, pointing toward the looming South Mountain range directly ahead.

  "Get all wagons off the road, just infantry. The wagons can fall in behind them after the corps has passed. Ambulances, tell the surgeons to pack what they can on a horse and then fall in riding with the column. Pull ammunition out of the wagons, get the extra rounds passed out to the men as they march by, eighty, a hundred rounds to each man if possible. Send word back to General Grant describing everything you've just heard here. I don't have time to write it out. Tell him I'm going ahead to Frederick."

  He pointed at one of his young, eager lieutenants.

  "You, get back up the road to Burnside. Inform him of what you've heard here and my decision to force-march on Frederick. Tell him I hope he will press forward with all possible speed to my assistance."

  The two couriers from Custer were off their mounts, one of them patting the animal's neck with affection, pouring water into his hat, emptying his canteen, the horse eagerly gulping down the few drops.

  Troopers from the headquarters company came up, a lieutenant detailing two men off to trade horses. The cavalryman from Custer's Brigade was reluctant to leave his mount, handing over the reins.

  "Her name is Ginger. She's a good horse, carried me through three charges. I'll come back for her after this is over."

  The trooper receiving the horse nodded, the two understanding each other and their love for their mounts. There was a pause and they shook hands.

  "William Bradley, I'll take good care of her. Mine is Sarah, she's got a tender mouth and hates spurs, so go easy on her."

  Bradley gently led the horse over to the side of the road where it could crop some grass while he took its saddle off.

  McPherson saw the exchange and could not help but smile. The two men trading horses were actually not much more than boys, their mounts beloved pets, companions.

  He looked to the mountains ahead. So close and yet so far, he thought, but it was not of the fight ahead he was thinking. Who he thought of now was beyond the imposing range, little more than fifty miles away, in Baltimore.

  If not for this rebel invasion of Maryland I'd be married now. Grant had promised him, once Vicksburg fell, he could have a furlough to go to Baltimore to marry Miss Emily Hoffman. And then the rebels took Baltimore, and not a word from her since.

  Ironically, he knew her parents were delighted. They were devout secessionists and at the start of the war had forbidden their marriage.

  So close, he thought. Perhaps we can end this war as Grant said we would, and then I'll ride into Baltimore and, parents or not, Emily and I will marry.

  Custer's troopers finished their exchange of mounts and saddled up, coming over to his side, disrupting his thoughts.

  McPherson motioned to one of his staff, who pulled out a flask, handing it to the two troopers.

  The one gladly took it, draining it half off, the second shook his head.

  "I'm a temperance man," he said.

  "Good for you, son," McPherson replied. "Now let's go see what your General Custer has started."

  Monocacy function 11:00 A.M.

  The depot was burning, the pounding of the last hour from the four guns arrayed on the opposite bank having torn it to shreds and then finally ignited it. The last of the troopers within poured out of the building, running and dodging as another shell screamed in, detonating on the track of the main line, ballast and shrapnel spraying.

  George Custer sat behind the blockhouse just west of the depot, feeling light-headed, his anxious staff gathered round.

  Mann was still holding the National Road bridge but had just reported that a second rebel battery was deploying on the far side, and could expect to engage at any moment. Also, it appeared that more rebs were coming up and already across the ford between him and the railroad bridge. Word had just come back from Town that several companies of rebs were across the river to the south as well, at a place called McCausland's Ford. Town already had a picket line out and, for the moment, was holding them, but more troopers, a regiment or more, could be seen on the opposite bank, heading in that direction.

  "Gray, you detach half your men, send them to back up to Town," George said.

  Gray nodded to one of his staff, who galloped off. Seconds later a shell nicked the side of the blockhouse, bounded off, then exploded on the far side of the track, the group hunkering down.

  "Sir, maybe it's time we get out of here," Gray offered. "We're being flanked on both sides. They got two batteries. I just had a rider come down from Frederick. He was up in a church steeple and said he saw plumes of smoke, from trains approaching. My God, if they have infantry on those trains, they'll force the bridge regardless of loss. By then we'll be cut off from retreat as well."

  "We hold," Custer said coolly.

  "Sir, we did our best," Gray countered. We can still get out, pull back to the top of the Catoctins behind us."

  He pointed to the mountain range now standing out boldly under a late morning sun. "There's only one road. We can block it all day. We get cut off and wiped out here, the rebs will have the bridge and the pass, too."

  "What good is holding the pass if Lee keeps this bridge, gets his pontoons across, and then escapes?"

  "Escape, sir? It's time we thought about escaping. Besides, the men are damn near out of ammunition. If infantry are coming up, what are we supposed to do, throw rocks at them?"

  Custer shook his head, feeling so weak he couldn't respond. He looked up at Gray.

  "May I suggest, sir, you're seriously injured, perhaps you should get back to the surgeon."

  "And have you take command and order a withdrawal?" Custer snapped angrily.

  Another shell slammed into the blockhouse, the building shaking from the impact, the men still inside cursing.

  Their argument was cut short by the distant cry of a steam whistle and Custer looked up expectantly. For a few seconds he wasn't sure of the direction the sound came from. Could the rebel reinforcements already be coming up? A second whistle sounded and he struggled to his feet.

  "We are going to blow this bridge, then we'll get out," Custer announced. "Get my
horse!"

  ' eb Stuart shifted his field glasses. It was hard to see with the smoke that billowed up in the still summer air, but then he saw it, two trains, coming out of Frederick. What is going on ? He watched them intently, and then the realization hit. "Tell Captain Jackson with the battery, I want his guns to hit those trains before they reach the bridge. Order the Fourteenth onto the bridge now."

  His staff looked at him, confused by the suicidal order. Only minutes before, Jeb had been exuberant, the river had been forded at two locations, he was funneling men across even now, and in another hour they'd have the depot.

  'Those trains!" Jeb shouted. "They'll blow them on the bridge. Move it!"

  Every step of his horse was agony to him, but George kept his saddle, galloping up the length of track toward Frederick. There was a sharp curve ahead, a small white clapboard schoolhouse to one side. He saw the smoke of the lead locomotive; it wasn't moving fast but it was coming on, rounding the curve, the locomotive not pulling anything other than its tender.

  George slowed. He saw Lieutenant Schultz on the cowcatcher, the excited lieutenant leaping off as the train skidded to a stop.

  The smoke of the second locomotive was several hundred yards back.

  "We got a plan, sir!" Schultz cried. "Where's the cars loaded with coal oil?" "That's the second train, sir." "Where's Tyler?"

  "He's piloting the second train. He sent me ahead, but we got to talk quick, sir." "The third train?"

  "Another ten minutes or so before its steam is up." "I don't understand," Custer said, again feeling lightheaded.

  Schultz quickly outlined the details, the idea registering with George, who in spite of his pain grinned. "Do it!"

  Schultz ran up to the cab of the locomotive waving his arms.

  The venting of steam stopped, pressure built up, smoke billowed from the smokestack, and, finally, the engine began to inch forward. As it slipped past Custer the engineer and two firemen on board leapt out.

  The locomotive continued, unpiloted, down the track, and for a second George was hit with a deep fear. He had never thought to pass the order to make sure the switches had been set properly. He could only pray that someone down at the burning depot knew what to do.