Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03

by Newt Gingrich; William R Forstchen

  There were times in his past when he had wanted to be as far away from contact with Washington as possible. But not now, not with the confidence among himself, Lincoln, and Washburne. If his plan was to work, they had to have this intricate web of wire to hook it all together, encircling Lee with tapping signals made of electricity that Napoleon and Caesar could never have dreamed of.

  He was grateful to Ely for the five hours of uninterrupted sleep. All of Hunt's Artillery had passed, and now the second division of Ord's Corps was slipping and sliding to the top of the crest and then sliding down the opposite side. Ely had told him that Ord had passed by without even wakening him, saying he and Phil would figure out where to deploy.

  Both these men were new to corps command. Ord only in May, Phil just since yesterday, but he felt a sense of confidence in them. They understood every detail of the intricate plan he had worked out even before Sickles went off half-cocked. Though he had yet to actually see Phil under fire, he knew Ord had a good eye for ground and would act correctly. If he had encountered any real questions, he would have sent a message back.

  The men of Ord's command were indeed exhausted. Typical of Ord he had pushed them remorselessly. As Grant rode out into the road, he took one last look to the west and saw Ord's Third Division struggling forward. The side of the road for miles back across the valley was dotted with blue specks, men who had collapsed after a day and a night of marching, with only a two-hour break at midnight. Perhaps twenty percent of his strength was thus scattered, but he had learned long ago that each regiment had its core, the hardbitten lot of two or three hundred who did ninety percent of the fighting. Some of the stragglers, he knew, were good spirits in a fight but physically unable to keep up on a forced march, some were the shirkers, worse than useless in a fight, and many were just ill with the usual complaints of the "two steps," ague, or lung sickness, and to slow an army for them to keep pace was senseless. '

  A collecting point had already been established for them in the village of Middletown, appropriately named, for it was midway between the two mountain ranges. Hospitals were set up there for the sick, and once the road was cleared, those capable again of marching would be pushed forward.

  He started down the slope, taking in the details. At least half a dozen of Hunt's guns and even more of the double limber caissons had wrecked on the way down. Crews had lost control and jumped off, with horses, guns, and caissons going over the side of the road in a horrifying tangle. And yet Hunt had pushed on.

  A scattering of dead from both sides lined the sides of the road. Boys in tattered gray and butternut mingled with the tattered blue of McPherson's boys. No one had bothered to move them, other than to drag off the road those who blocked the way.

  He tried not to look; the sights were far too distressing: sixteen-year-olds clutching a Bible or daguerreotype, older men twisted up in agony, others so peaceful, as if asleep. Two boys, identical twins, lay arm in arm, their blood commingled in the mud. The bodies were all so still, but strangely, if you stared at them too long, they appeared to be breathing still. A reb sergeant and a union private lay side by side, an open canteen between them, and yet ten feet away were two more, transfixed in death, one with a knife buried in the stomach of the other, the faces of both frozen in a terrible rage.

  One man, a Confederate captain, was sitting against a tree, letters scattered about him, one still clutched in his hand. Letters from a mother, a sweetheart perhaps? He looked for a second, then turned his gaze away, forcing himself to again look straight ahead. None would ever go home; they'd be buried here. Perhaps weeks or months later a letter might arrive from a company officer or comrade, "Dear Madam, I regret to inform you ..."

  Wellington was right, the only thing as terrible as a battlefield lost was a battlefield won. Win or lose was still not decided, but for those now carpeting the sides of the road, victory or defeat no longer mattered.

  I can never dwell on that too long, he thought. Will Lee and I one day answer for this, he wondered. It was a thought he knew was not healthy for him at this moment, and he forced it aside.

  The migraine still bedeviled him, and he rubbed his brow. Ely was watching him with concern. He had tried to eat breakfast, a fine feast of fresh eggs, some salt pork, and even a few links of smoked sausage, and then slipped into the woods to vomit it all up. He smiled away Ely's concerns with the simple, "I'm fine."

  A cigar helped a bit, and he puffed on it continually as he rode down the slope. The random thought came to him that a drink right now would taste awfully good, would settle his stomach, perhaps push the headache back, but that was something he knew he could never do now.

  Maybe years from now, when I think of this moment, he thought, perhaps then I'll get a good bottle of whiskey down and drink it dry, but not now, definitely not now. But if there was anything that could turn a man back into an alcoholic it was this nightmare road and the wreckage of battle strewn along it.

  The headache intensified. He tossed aside the cigar he was smoking, half finished, and then in a couple of minutes lit another.

  They rode into the western end of Frederick, dozens of buildings smoking ruins. Ord's lead division was by his side, men moving slowly in their exhaustion but looking around, exclaiming over the wreckage, the obvious signs of a hard-fought battle.

  Collapsed buildings still smoldered, civilians picking through the wreckage, a dazed woman standing by the side of the road clutching a flame-scorched portrait. A detail of soldiers, several of them Confederate prisoners, was hauling buckets of water, flinging them against the side of a home which was partially burned and still flickering with flames. A brick house, windows shot out, had a hospital flag flying in front of it; dozens of homes now displayed that flag, or just white bedsheets hanging out of windows. Wounded Union and Confederates lay on the sidewalk, while from within came ghastly cries of anguish.

  An upended limber wagon blocked a sidestreet, several of the horses still alive, whimpering in pain, and Grant turned to one of his men, asking him to put the poor beasts out of their misery. He loathed the sight of an animal in pain.

  In another section of town, nearly an entire block had been leveled by fire, smoke billowing up from the ruins. A church, its steeple tilting at a drunken angle after being hit by an exploding shell, had its doors flung open. On its doorstep he saw Union and Confederate doctors, working together, doing the grisly task of admitting some within and quietly telling many stretcher bearers to cany their burden "around the back," which meant they were too far gone for help.

  The windows of nearly every shop were smashed in, and from a tree two bodies dangled on ropes, one a rebel, another a Union soldier, signs hanging from their stiffening bodies: LOOTERS & COWIRDS.

  He edged his way toward the center of town. Here the battle had been at its fiercest Dead carpeted the sidewalks, dangled from windows, were sprawled into shop windows, and laid curled up in alleyways. A cavalry detachment, a few weary men from Custer's command, were mounted and at the center of town, directing Ord's column to keep moving eastward, to not stop till the far side of town.

  "General Sheridan's headquarters?" Ely asked, and a trooper pointed down the road.

  "At the Frederick railroad depot, about four blocks ahead, sir," and the men saluted as Grant rode by.

  "General Grant!"

  He looked over at his inquirer, a civilian carrying a cumbersome box with tripod over his shoulder. "Sir, a favor!" "What is it?" Grant asked.

  "Sir, General McPherson was shot right over there." The photographer pointed toward a corner building at the center of town, several bodies lying in the gutter, bloodstains still in the street.

  Grant stared at him.

  "May I have your portrait there, sir? Surely the Illustrated Weekly will want this one. General Grant mourns at the place McPherson fell."

  Though obscenities were rare for him, one spilled forth now, and turning, he rode on, staff glaring coldly at the photographer who stood there, mystified by t
he response. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he moved on, setting up his camera for another shot of the troops when they paused for a break.

  He pushed on, past a house where a tattered Confederate regimental flag dangled from a third-floor window. He saw a column of exhausted rebel prisoners, fifty or more, being escorted by several equally exhausted guards, a minister saying a prayer over a dozen blanketed bodies, a Catholic priest giving communion to several men who had stopped for his blessing, and then to his amazement, an embalmer who was selling policies.

  Men like him always trailed the armies. They'd sell an "embalming policy" for fifty dollars to any soldier and issue him a receipt. If a comrade brought the body in with the receipt, the deliverer received five dollars, the body was supposedly embalmed, usually poorly done, and then shipped to the family.

  Some of Mcpherson's men were negotiating with him, dead bodies lying around his wagon.

  "Drive that scoundrel off," Grant snapped, and several of the men of Grant's headquarters detail were more than happy to comply, one of them deliberately smashing the embalmer's bottles of fluids with his sword, then drawing a pistol on him and telling him, "Get the hell out of this town, you son of a bitch."

  Grant did not look back, but rode on. At last he saw it, the rail depot. It was a wreck, a small roundhouse burned to the ground, several cars still flickering with flames, a warehouse all but flattened by fire except for the skeleton-like eyes of its windows.

  He spotted Sheridan out front, Ord by his side, and Hunt leaning against a tree, smoking a cigar. At his approach the three came to attention.

  "Quite a mess here in town," Sheridan announced, as Grant rode up.

  "I can see that."

  "No fighting to report, sir. The rebels gave back during the night and retreated across the Monocacy."

  Grant nodded. No news there. At dawn he had seen it clearly enough. Frankly, he did not expect Lee to try to fight him on this side of the creek. There was no good tactical ground for him to hold, other than to try to maintain his grip on the town and block the one road.

  Grant dismounted, tossed his cigar aside, and walked over to a table where Phil had a map spread out, pencil marks indicating troop movements. The other officers fell in around him.

  Grant puffed on his cigar as he leaned over the map and studied it intently, examining where Sheridan had sketched in the rebel positions.

  "We fight hira here," Grant said.

  "But he has chosen this ground," Hunt replied. "Sir, I know you said we should stop trying to worry about what Lee wants, but still, from experience, sir, when that man chooses ground, it means a tough fight."

  "And that is precisely why I will fight him here," Grant

  replied sharply. "He wants this fight, and so do I. Let him choose this ground, this particular place. It will fix him in place the way I want it."

  He leaned back, rubbing his brow again.

  Ord grinned and said nothing.

  Grant leaned over the map again.

  "We just had a report come up from the depot," Sheridan said, "that General Longstreet was spotted."

  "Is Beauregard up yet?"

  "No indication of that, sir," Sheridan replied. "We've accounted for two divisions of Hood's. About a hundred guns are deploying along the heights above the depot and also over on our right flank here."

  He pointed to where the creek took a turn to the southwest for a mile or so before bending back to the south.

  "It's called the McCausland Farm. A good open hill. Guns there can enfilade the depot area."

  "Sir," Ord interjected, "we have two intact corps up. Hunt has his batteries up. Why don't we go for them here?"

  He pointed toward the McCausland Farm.

  "There's a ford below the farm. My boys could force it."

  Grant nodded, looking at the map, remembering the lay of the terrain he had spent hours studying yesterday.

  "Your boys have marched for nearly twenty-four hours," Grant said.

  "My command, then," Sheridan offered. 'They've had several hours' rest."

  "I want you to hold the center of the line and the left flank," Grant said. "You're already in position for that."

  He contemplated the move and then finally nodded.

  "I want to keep the pressure on Lee, but Banks is not yet up. General Ord, a limited attack, later in the day. Do not bring on a general engagement, though."

  "Sir?"

  "The last thing I want now is to push Lee out of this position, but I do not want him to think we are suffering from temerity. Commit as if we are about to try a serious lunge, but conserve your boys."

  "If I gain the ford?" Ord asked.

  "Hold it, of course. That will force him to want to take it back, but do not bring on a general engagement." "I understand, sir."

  Grant sat down on, of all things, a church pew that had been carried out of the church across the street and his staff gathered round as Sheridan held a map up, Grant behind him, tracing out the move.

  He hated giving orders like this for a limited attack. A "demonstration" they use to call it at the Point. Still, such a demonstration might cost a thousand lives before it was done.

  One Mile Southeast ofMonocacy Junction 2:00 P.M.

  The train drifted to a halt. Emily Hoffman gazed out the window, the spectacle around her not registering, for at such a moment the world collapses into itself, and the struggle, the anguish, the drama of a hundred thousand others become meaningless.

  For the last six miles they had passed train after train stalled on the other track, locomotives puffing, backing up slowly, foot by foot. Troops lined the tracks, marching westward, battle flags at the fore of each regiment. "Miss Hoffman?".

  She looked up. It was the kindly Captain Cain, and she forced a smile. "Miss Hoffman?" "Yes, Bill?" "We're here, ma'am." "Thank you."

  She stood up. Her parents, sitting across from her, stood as well, her mother reaching out to take her hand, which she refused. She took a deep breath and followed Cain to the back of the single car, empty except for the four of them.Troops piled off the other cars in the train and she realized this was one more part of the war she hated. As she stepped out onto the rear platform, she found a detachment was waiting for her, Confederate cavalry and a small carriage, a battered country type of carriage, barely able to hold four, its top gone, a single aging horse in the traces.

  "Sorry about the carriage, ma'am," a major said as she stepped down, taking.Cain's hand. "It's all General Lee could find for you."

  She forced a smile as she stepped into the carriage, Cain taking the reins, her mother and father squeezing in on the seat behind her.

  The major rode out front, escorts flanking the carriage, and they set off. The road they were on, heading south, was packed with troops, the major riding ahead, shouting for them to clear the way.

  The men, grumbling, stepped aside but, at the sight of her, many removed their hats. "That's her," she heard one of them announce as they passed.

  The road turned off to the west, and after another turn to the south, they pulled into the drive of a modest two-story frame house.

  She recoiled at the sight confronting her. Several hundred men lay in the yard, under the trees of a small orchard, some out in the glaring sun, others under quickly erected awnings of shelter halves and tarps. A tent was set lip outside the building, and to her horror a pile of bloody limbs rested outside the tent.

  The major barked a sharp command, and one of his troopers dismounted, grabbed a blanket from behind his saddle, ran up, and threw the blanket over the grisly sight, but it was too late; she had already seen it.

  She felt as if she would faint but then whispered a silent prayer for strength. James must not see me weak, not now. Behind her, her mother began to cry.

  Cain got down from the carriage and offered his hand.

  "This way, Miss Hoffman."

  She stepped down from the carriage. All in the yard fell strangely quiet at the sight of her. men whispering to ea
ch other. Some of the wounded were boys in blue, and one of them, leg missing below the knee, propped himself on his elbow.

  "Let's hear it for old McPherson!" he cried, and a ragged three cheers echoed weakly.

  She looked at her escort of Confederate troopers and officers. They were silent, but she could see in their eyes there was no rancor, instead she saw looks of compassion, and she nodded to them, one of the men offering a handkerchief so she could wipe her eyes.

  She mounted the steps. A minister was standing there, and for a horrified second she feared she was too late.

  "I'm Reverend Lacy," he said. "I used to serve with General Jackson. Now I'm on General Lee's staff. He asked that I attend you, miss. Your fiance is still with us."

  "Thank you, Reverend," she whispered.

  He extended his hand and she took it.

  "He's upstairs, resting at the moment."

  "His condition?" her father asked.

  The reverend looked straight at her.

  "You must be strong, my dear, and place your faith in Our Lord."

  "He won't live, will he?" she asked.

  He shook his head.

  "How long?"

  "A few hours perhaps."

  "Is he in pain?"

  "No. The doctor gave him morphine, though he tried to refuse it. Miss, he is shot through both lungs. It is only a matter of time now."

  She said nothing but felt a frightful urgency to see him and stepped into the house. Again she wanted to recoil. It appeared to be the home of a country physician, his office to her right, but the sight within that room filled her with horror, for the doctor was operating on a man, blood dripping to the floor, the doctor bent over, cutting into the man's open thigh. In the parlor to the left, a dozen men were on the floor, a woman, most likely the doctor's wife, bandaging a boy's face, slashed wide open from scalp to jaw. She looked up at Emily, but said nothing.

  'This way," Reverend Beverly Lacy said and led her upstairs to the second floor. In what was obviously the doctor's bedroom she saw him as she reached the last step, doorway open.