He turned about and started to ride back down the track. To his left he saw puffs of smoke. Men, his men, on horseback, pulling back along a road, reb skirmishers pressing them.
The next engine came around the bend, pulling a passenger car and boxcar. It was picking up speed as it thundered past him. Sergeant—hopefully soon-to-be lieutenant—Tyler leaned out and waved.
George loosened his reins, spurring his mount. The pain forgotten for the moment, he galloped down the track toward the depot, riding just behind the train.
Phil Duvall looked around anxiously at his men. Over half his command was down after five long hours of fighting. Men were tearing open the cartridge boxes of the dead and wounded, trying to load back up. Wide-eyed, he gazed over at the colonel of the Fourteenth, who was breathing hard, gulping.
The man was scared. Hell, who wouldn't be? "Alright boys," the colonel cried. "Let's go!" The colonel stood up and then stepped out right to the middle of the bridge, standing between the two tracks, saber out, pointing.
There was a hesitation and he looked back. "Come on, you bastards!" he shouted. "Don't let it be said that the Fourteenth is filled with cowards!"
Men stood up and began to run forward, hunched low, hugging the sides of the bridge, dashing from one support beam to the next.
Phil looked around at his own small command that the colonel of the Fourteenth had "volunteered" into this mad charge. He caught Sergeant Lucas's eyes, the man looking at him as if to say, "Do we really have to do this?"
"Come on, boys," Phil said, swallowing hard. "Let's go."
He stood up and ran forward. There was no rebel yell this time. The situation was too grim for that. It would be a mad dash into a blaze of fire erupting from the other side.
They reached the middle of the bridge, several men already down, one tumbling off the side of the bridge into the stream. Others were dropping, crumpling; some were slowing, returning fire.
There was the discordant hum of an artillery shell, followed by three more soaring overhead, but he could not see where they landed.
And then he heard it coming. Looking up, he saw a locomotive, near to derailing it seemed, coming through the switch from the spur line to Frederick and on to the main track. It was thundering straight toward him on the east-bound side.
He jumped back, flattening himself against a trestle beam, the engine roaring by. He caught a quick glimpse of the cab. No one was on board.
What the hell is going on ?
The engine raced across the bridge, the temporary structure shaking and rattling with its passage. All the men in the charge stopped for a second, looking back as the train cleared the bridge and then disappeared around the bend.
"Here comes another!" someone shouted.
Phil looked back to the west, the smoke of the passing train making it difficult to see.
Another locomotive was coming off the spur line on to the main track, this one beginning to slow down. Sparks were shooting out from the wheels as it began to brake.
"Get it!" someone screamed.
And instantly dozens of shots rang out, sparks flying off the brass and iron siding of the locomotive. To his absolute amazement he saw three Yankees aboard the locomotive, one of them now swinging a heavy sledgehammer, as if smashing something. Phil raised his revolver and fired it, emptying all six rounds. The man staggered but swung again. From out of the passenger car several Yankees emerged, jumping down. One of them made a dash for the side of the bridge as if to jump off, but he was shot before reaching the railing.
From inside the passenger car he could see flames erupting, blowing out the windows, a popping sound, like muffled explosions within, each pop setting off more flames.
Phil stepped up to the side of the locomotive and pointed his empty revolver at the man with the sledgehammer.
"Make a move and I'll blow your damn head off," he threatened.
The man looked at him, grinned, and dropped the sledgehammer, putting one hand up in the air, his other arm hanging limp.
"Get down!"
"You're damn right I'm getting down," the Yankee said, reaching for the railing by the steps and then leaping off. He hit the bridge flooring and cursed, going over on his side.
"Reb, give me a hand up."
"Why?"
Already carbine fire from the far side of the bridge had resumed. Torn, Phil felt he should go forward and still try to capture the other side.
"I'll tell you a secret, reb."
"And that is?"
"This son of a bitch is going to blow up in a few minutes, and there isn't a damn thing you can do now to stop it. I've smashed up the works good and proper, and that boiler is getting set to let go."
Phil looked around at his men. The way ahead was already almost impossible to traverse; the passenger car was burning fiercely, flames like blowtorches blasting out of the windows, which were shattering from the heat.
The Yankee was half up to his feet, looking at him wide-eyed, his features pale.
"You want to live, reb, get off this bridge now.r
Phil reached down and pulled the man roughly to his feet. "Pull back!" he roared. "Get off the bridge!" His men needed no urging. They had had enough of this fight.
Shoving his prisoner along, Phil broke into a run, the two crossing the final feet back off the bridge and tumbling down into a culvert.
The Yankee grunted as he hit the ground next to Phil and then, to Phil's amazement, the Yankee reached into his pocket, pulled out a bottle, and uncorked it.
"You first, reb."
Phil nodded and took the drink. A minute ago he figured he was a dead man, and for the moment was damn grateful to still be alive. He realized that if this damn fool had not come along with his train, he'd have been forced to continue in that bloody charge. Many of the men of the Fourteenth were now cut off by the burning passenger car, some daring the flames, crouched down low, running back, others just giving up and jumping off the bridge.
"What's going to happen?" Phil asked.
"You just watch," the Yankee said, taking the bottle back and gulping down at least half a pint in three or four hard swallows. "But stay down low."
Peeking up over the side of the culvert Phil now saw a third locomotive appear, a small switch engine. It looked like an antique from twenty years ago, but it was moving fast, men jumping off as it rounded through the switch on the spur line. It thundered on to the bridge, artillery shells detonating to either side of it.
The switch engine came onto the bridge, still building speed, and plowed into the train ahead of it. The boxcar at the rear of the second train collapsed, and an instant later exploded into a fireball of flame as hundreds of gallons of coal oil sprayed out. The boxcar then telescoped into the passenger car, the burning car bursting asunder, spilling out rivers of flaming oil on to the bridge. The switching engine upended, tipping over, crashing through a trestle railing, careening off the bridge with a roar. It plunged into the river below, tearing out the side of the bridge, ripping up track, an explosion of steam and smoke erupting as it hit the river.
"I'll be damned," Phil whispered, standing up.
"Get down, reb!" the Yankee shouted, reaching out with his good arm to pull him down.
The second locomotive had lurched forward half a dozen feet from the impact, breaking the rail, tipping over slightly.
"About ready," the Yankee said. "Now stay down!"
There was a thunderclap and Phil could not resist peeking over the edge of the culvert. He felt a wash of heat and steam, the boiler of the locomotive erupting. Debris soared heavenward: part of a drive wheel, the smokestack, nearly intact, hunks of metal, flaming coals that looked like meteors or mortar shells fired at night.
He could feel the ground shudder. The bridge itself seemed to lurch, almost as if it had jumped from its foundation, and then settled back down. Wooden beams collapsed, spraying fire across most of the structure.
On both sides, everyone stopped shooting. Like schoolbo
ys they stood up to watch the destruction,- some even shouting excitedly.
"Down, reb!"
The Yankee pulled him back into the culvert, curling up as he did so. A hunk of red-hot metal, part of the boiler, hit the side of the culvert and then bounced over them, spraying Phil with a shower of boiling hot water so that he cursed and slapped at his face.
The echo of the explosion rumbled across the valley.
George Armstrong Custer, still mounted, watched, mesmerized by the spreading cloud of debris. He could barely keep his saddle now, and perhaps, if not already injured, he would have been more alert and seen it coming, the expanding explosion, shards of iron, wood, part of a train axle spinning end over end, the axle killing his mount and tearing him out of the saddle.
A Mile East of Monocacy 11:10 A.M.
The train lurched even as a fireman leapt atop the tender and down to the door of the passenger car "Out, get out!" he screamed. Lee, half dozing, opened his eyes, men looking up at the wide-eyed fireman.
"We're gonna wreck. Jump for it!" Their train was slowing, skidding, the locomotive brakes shrieking as if they were about to be torn apart.
Walter leaned out the window to look and then turned on Lee, grabbing him by the shoulder, hauling him physically out of his seat and pushing him back to the rear door, the rest of the staff now following him. The train was still moving at ten miles an hour or more. Lee reached the last step and hesitated. "Jump, sir! Jump!"
Lee leapt off, hitting the ground hard, rolling, Walter coming down by his side. Seconds later Hotchkiss was on the ground twenty feet away. More men piled out.
Lee sat up, confused, actually feeling a bit humiliated, and undignified by this sudden action. Then he saw it Coming down the track, straight at them, was a locomotive, moving frightfully fast.
Walter grabbed Lee by the shoulder, pulling him up and away from the track.
The firemen and engineer were the last to leap, hitting the ground on their feet, and began to run up the sloping embankment away from the train.
The locomotive coming toward them appeared to be slowing down but still it was coming on at a good thirty miles an hour or more... when it collided head-on with their train, both boilers exploding, debris soaring heavenward. The passenger car they were on disintegrated, and then actually slid backward, its shattered remnants rolling into the ditch Lee had landed in.
Stunned, he looked about, oblivious to the debris showering down even as Walter protectively stood at his side, looking up, watching for danger.
Fire and steam boiled across the track, the two locomotives seemingly mated in a single tangled pile of scrap metal, both tracks torn up and mangled by the collision.
Lee looked back. Fortunately, the head of the convoy bearing Scales's Division was skidding to a stop, a good hundred yards back from the wreck.
"What in heaven's name was that?" Hotchkiss whispered, coming up to Lee's side, brushing himself off.
"Did all the men get out?" Lee asked.
Walter looked around.
"I think so, sir"
There was a voice inside him that whispered that he never should have thought of using the railroads to move his men. It was a strength of the Yankees, but sometimes also a weakness, since a single derailment could tie up movement for days. He looked back at the trains bearing Scales and his men.
"Get them dismounted," he said. 'Traveler is back on the second or third train. Bring him up to me. I'm riding forward."
He walked up the line to look at the wreckage, shielding his face from the heat of the fire. One of the men had indeed not gotten out, the fireman who had leapt to their car to give the warning, thereby saving Lee's life. The man had apparently been caught between the passenger car and the tender, his body nearly torn in two.
He knelt by his side. Fortunately, the poor man was already dead. He whispered a prayer and then stood up. Someone with Scales had already thought to bring Traveler forward, and Lee mounted up.
"I'm going forward, gendemen. Get Scales up as quick as possible," he said quietly, and, edging around the wreckage, he pushed on toward Monocacy.
Monocacy Junction 11:50 A.M.
Custer knew he was dying. It wasn't the arm that got him. It was the hunk of red-hot metal, bursting from the explosion, that had shattered his legs, killing his horse as well. Several of his men had tenderly carried him back behind the depot and into the blockhouse.
He chuckled. Hell of a way to die. Hope the artists make it look good.
The rebs were now closing in from all sides. He had ordered Gray and Mann to try to get out, to get up to the Catoctin Pass and hold it till Grant arrived.
The bridge was still standing, but barely. The north side was collapsed between the second and fourth piers, the south side a twisted jumble of torn-up track, smoldering wood. A scattering of shots still echoed, now a circle of fire as the rebs who had forded the river to the north and south closed in.
Alger had not made it out. Shot in the stomach, bent double but still game, he raised his revolver to fire at the rebs coming down the main track from the west.
The ring closed in tighter. The rebs flanking him now circled the higher ground around the blockhouse, firing volley after volley into the gun ports. The inside of the blockhouse was a shambles, a shell having pierced a gun port, striking down a dozen men within.
Numbed, George looked around. Damn rotten place to die, he thought. Out in the open, after a damn good charge. That's how I wanted it, Custer's Last Charge. Not inside this shambles.
"Cease fire," he whispered.
Alger looked over at him.
"Cease fire," George said again.
Alger nodded, looked around for something white, finally tearing off the bloody shirt of a dead trooper, putting it on the point of his sword, and sticking it out a port.
The gunfire outside slacked and then stilled.
"Put your guns down, boys," George said softly.
The begrimed men around him said nothing.
"You done good. You just might have given Grant the time he needs. No shame in surrender after what we did."
"You Yanks, come on outta there."
Four men picked up the makeshift litter, made out of a blanket, and carried George, blinking, into the sunlight. They set him down against the blockhouse after he asked to be able to sit up.
Directly ahead the railroad bridge was still burning. To his right the remnants of the covered bridge had already collapsed, hissing and steaming into the creek. He had certainly made a fine job of destruction here this morning.
Dozens of his men were being rounded up, hands over their heads, being herded to the far side of the depot, which had just collapsed in on itself.
A thin line of rebel troopers were now coming across the railroad bridge on foot, edging their way across over broken beams, twisted track, barely able to negotiate the collapsed section except for a single stringer that had somehow survived.
"George, how are you?"
He felt a hand slip into his.
"Phil?"
"It's me, George." "Think I'm dying, Phil." Phil hesitated. "You are, George."
A blanket had been placed across George's legs. He looked down and saw part of a leg sticking out at an impossible angle, other leg gone nearly at the hip. So damn stupid, killed by an exploding train.
"How are you, sir?"
It was hard to see.
"Who is it?"
"Corporal Tyler, sir. You said I'd make lieutenant if I blew up the bridge."
"I did, didn't I. What are you doing here, Tyler?"
"He's my prisoner, George," Phil said. "A brave man. Figure he saved my life. I'll see he gets taken care of, and will sign a statement of your promoting him if you wish."
George smiled, no longer able to speak.
"Hell of a fight, George. You certainly put a twist into us. You always wanted glory," Phil said, his voice suddenly choking. "Well, you got it, my friend."
But he was already slipping awa
y, to visions of other places, and, of course, of glory.
CHAPTER TEN
Richmond, Virginia
The Confederate White House
August 25 Noon
Frustrated, President Jefferson Davis tossed the latest dispatches on his desk. It was turning into another hot day, and slipping off his coat he walked about the room, hands behind his back.
Something was brewing, that was clearly evident, but what he could not tell. The latest word from General Lee was dated from yesterday morning, indicating that Grant had indeed crossed the Susquehanna, that he appeared to be coming straight south toward Baltimore, and that Lee was preparing to engage.
He could sense the difficulty Lee was facing. The Richmond Examiner was still hailing the great triumph at Gunpowder Falls, predicting now that Washington would fall within the week and the war would be won.
His own experience, though, whispered to him that it would not be that easy. Lee's dispatch indicated they had sustained over eight thousand casualties, many of regimental and brigade rank. His leadership ranks were sorely depleted and the Army of Northern Virginia had always relied on its midlevel officers to give it a speed and flexibility the Union army did not seem capable of matching. The battle had been fought in hundred-degree heat. Of course, he'd prefer to rest and refit before seeking action yet again. Grant had disrupted that.
The disturbing part was all the other news. In the pile of dispatches was a report, taken from the telegraph line at Harpers Ferry, sent over to Winchester and from there to Richmond, with the information from an.outpost that a Union cavalry brigade had occupied Frederick. Another report had come in from a scout, who rode down from Green-castle during the night to Winchester, claiming that all of Grant's army was in the Cumberland Valley, heading straight to the Shenandoah Valley.
Did Lee know this?
The news from the west was of equal concern. Bragg had lost Chattanooga without a fight, pulled back, and yesterday turned at a place called Chickamauga, where Sherman had fought him to a standstill, Bragg complaining that had he been properly reinforced with but one more corps he could have destroyed Sherman. Bragg now claimed he might have to retreat as far as Atlanta if he did not receive sufficient reinforcements. He had already dispatched Joe Johnston's small force to Bragg, but sensed that would not help much. If anything, those two would quickly turn on each other.
Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 Page 19
