Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03

by Newt Gingrich; William R Forstchen

  "Doctor, thank you for my life, but you are talking about what is now my duty, my country's call." With a smile he limped out of the doctor's office.

  What he had not told the doctor was the wish that he could somehow take a supply of morphine with him. Its memory haunted him, its soothing call, the strange dreams, the easing of pain.

  All that was set aside at this moment. A minie ball snicked past him. He did not flinch, though several of his staff did. It was a test, and he had passed it.

  He looked around at his staff and grinned with delight.

  "I don't think they've made another ball to hit me just yet."

  "Maybe not you, sir," one of his men replied, "but maybe there's one out there for us."

  The group chuckled at the gallows humor.

  Infantrymen converted from soldiers of a Maine heavy artillery regiment were jumping off the lead barges, deploying into skirmish line, double-timing up the road to fall in with the cavalry skirmishers driving back the few rebs contesting the position.

  Hancock waited for a landing plank to be laid to his barge before he stepped off, leaning heavily on his cane for support.

  He looked around. A typical river crossing for the Potomac. He remembered it from an earlier campaign when he had crossed here on a pontoon bridge. The ferry was a standard affair, cable strung across the river as towropes, but the boat was gone, the position abandoned after the war swept through back in June.

  With even a modest pontoon bridge it'd be an excellent crossing point, a clear but narrow road straight up to Frederick to the north and Leesburg, Virginia, a dozen miles to the south.

  The low river-bottom ground quickly gave way to a rising slope which even now his skirmishers were taking.

  He set off at a slow walk, heading up the slope. Pausing for a breath, he looked back. A bridge on the road from the ferry crossing rose up over the canal, and the barge crews were now using it to run their horses across, and with practiced skill the first barge was already being pulled back toward Washington, narrowly passing those barges still coming up.

  Just ahead was what was considered to be one of the engineering marvels of the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, the viaduct over Monocacy Creek.

  It was a stone arched bridge, carrying not a railroad track but the water of the canal, flat and level from one side of the Monocacy to the other, well over thirty feet above the river's flood plain. The towpaths on either side were excellent crossing points for infantry and it was essential to hold this position.

  He was surprised that neither side, at some point during this war, had not decided to blow this viaduct; it would have shut the canal down for months.

  Looking back down the canal, toward Washington, he could see a long procession, boats riding low in the water, the men in high spirits. They'd been garrison troops for far too long, enduring the endless gibes and often scuffles with the men of his beloved and now gone Army of the Potomac.

  He had felt a bit of the same disdain for them once. While his boys were up at the front, battling it out with the Army of Northern Virginia, the Washington garrison had sat out two years of the war, in heated barracks, with cookhouses, fresh rations, and even beds to sleep in. They had, however, won their honor with the holding of the city in July. Reinforced now by tough veterans from the South Carolina campaign, they were out of the city that many themselves had come to hate, were in the field on a new adventure, and had not seen so much action that they dreaded the next shock. In a way they reminded him of how he and his men had once looked, long ago, in the early spring of 1862, when McClellan had led them forth to the Peninsula, fresh, eager, neat, and ready for a fight.

  He worried some about how they would react when they were hit by the hardened combat veterans Bobbie Lee would throw at them. He knew that in an open running fight he would bet on the veterans of field combat over heavy artillerymen converted into infantry. However, dug in, with a defensive role of stopping the rebs and not maneuvering against them, he thought his Washington garrison troops might just do the job. He was certainly going to do everything he could to stiffen their resolve and get them ready before Lee got to them.

  He gained the top of the slope. The view was magnificent, the Potomac River coiling behind him, the canal with its boats, the sun low over the Catoctin Mountains to the west.

  The last of the skirmishing ahead was dying- down. No casualties to either side, the rebel patrol far back now on the road, a mile or more away.

  His staff was coming up around him, several of them survivors of the Second Corps who had escaped the debacles at Union Mills and Gunpowder River and who he had requested to join him now.

  "Right here, gentlemen," Hancock announced. "I want a good survey done right now along this rise. We dig in close to the river."

  "This close?" a major asked.

  It was Jeremiah Siemens, his old topographical engineer when he commanded a division at Chancellorsville. Jeremiah had missed Union Mills, having been wounded at Chancellorsville, his empty left sleeve rolled up.

  "Yes, here."

  "No room for withdrawal, sir, if things go against us."

  He knew Jeremiah well enough to know that the question was not so much for himself, but as an answer to those gathering round.

  "There will be no withdrawal, gentlemen," Hancock announced. "Our orders are to secure every potential crossing spot between here and Point of Rocks." He pointed toward the Catoctins, ten miles to the northwest.

  "That's here, Nolands Ferry just on the other side of the viaduct, then Point of Rocks. We leave five thousand men back at Edwards Ferry across from Leesburg, but the rest come up here."

  The group, now including several officers from his First Division, were silent.

  "If Lee should come on us with everything he has," one of them finally ventured, "we have to defend four crossings, and picket in between. He can focus on one point and outnumber us there five, maybe even six or seven, to one."

  "That's why we dig in," Hancock replied sharply. "Jeremiah, I want surveys completed here and at Nolands before dark. Then up to Point of Rocks by dawn, but defending that position will be easy, it's a narrow squeeze down to the crossing and three thousand men there would be like the three hundred Spartans at Thermopylae. Remember, we don't have to defeat Lee by ourselves. We simply have to stop him long enough for Grant to catch up and hit him from the rear. If we do our job, Grant will do his. Somewhere along here Lee is going to try to get home to Virginia. We are the cork in the bottle to stop him."

  Hancock looked upriver and then downriver. He made a summary judgment of what he saw and what he remembered from the maps of the region.

  "No, I doubt that it will be Point of Rocks or Edwards Ferry. If Lee should turn, it will be here."

  "That's a lot of work," someone said. "Our boys are good diggers, Lord knows. They did their share around Washington, but to make it secure, while also putting out pickets, keeping back Mosby ..."

  No one spoke for a moment. All had fallen silent, for in the distance, like a summer storm, came a dull, rolling thunder.

  "Then let's start now," Hancock replied sharply. "The sooner we are dug in, the safer we will be. Make sure the men understand that. They are digging for their lives."

  Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna Frederick, Maryland

  7:00 P.M.

  A cool evening breeze wafted down from the heights behind the town and Grant sighed with relief as the temperature dropped several degrees within minutes. Not like Mississippi at all, where the muggy heat would linger through the night. No mosquitoes either, and that was a blessing.

  He had moved his headquarters from the town depot out to a low rise just east of the toll gate south of town. At the edge of the rise, a quarter mile away, Hunt was busy with his guns, crews digging in, throwing up lunettes around each piece, constructing rough bombproofs to store limber chests in. Occasional harassing fire came from the rebel guns on the far side of the river, but nothing serious, just a growling back and forth
like two old neighboring dogs reminding each other of their existence. It dropped off as dusk settled over the countryside.

  All orders had been given; Sheridan and Ord knew their tasks. Of Banks he was not sure yet, but his men had come up in good order during the day, filing down out of the mountain pass and falling in on the north flank. Banks's men, at least, he knew were good troops that had fought through the swamps of the lower Mississippi, though ironically many of the regiments were recruited from New York and New England. It had been easier in the first year of the war to ship men from there to New Orleans while the Confederates still held Vicksburg and Port Hudson.

  They had seen action before, though not on the scale of battles here in the East, but he had a sense of them, that they were grateful to be out of the Deep South and eager to prove themselves ... and tomorrow would definitely be a day of proving. He hoped they would rise to the occasion.

  The orders were straightforward and simple. At dawn, all three corps were to engage: Sheridan in the center, Ord on the right, Banks on the left, with what was left of Mcpherson's Corps to be in reserve in the town. The three attacking corps were to go for the fords, but also force a general action up and down the length of the river for five miles or more, to fight like hell and hold Lee in place, to not give him a breather or the room to maneuver, but to lock hold of him and hang on. And they were not to throw men away senselessly. Ord, his blood up after barely taking the ford, was ready to do so, to storm straight in against a hundred or more guns. No, first we have to wear the other side down, exhaust them, and then let the plan unfold.

  Campfires by the thousands were springing to light along the river, on both sides, the scent of wood smoke, coffee, and frying salt pork filling the evening air. To him it was a comforting smell, part of his life, a better part of the army life he had always loved. The day's march done, the men settling down, songs drifting on the air, rations being cooked, the first stars of evening coming out.

  If only war were like this forever, I would love it so, he thought, but only if this moment could be frozen, not what had been or what was to come. Behind him his staff was having their supper, spread out on a rough plank table, the men laughing at a joke. They were used to his going off like this, especially before a fight, to be alone, to smoke, to think, to recalculate, to think again, in silence. Besides, the migraine still tormented him and the thought of trying to eat anything beyond some hardtack made his stomach rebel.

  Was everything in place? Is there anything I forgot?

  He knew it was senseless to try to reason those questions out now, and yet always he did it on the eve of a confrontation. It was not a question of resolve, however.

  He had resolved on this moment on the day the telegram arrived from Lincoln bearing news of Union Mills and of his own promotion to command. He knew the focus of his task, to track Lee down, bring him to battle, and then destroy him.

  So many would die tomorrow. He knew that; they all did, on both sides of the river. Even as the men around the camp-fires joked and sang, many others had drawn off. Some sat alone, looking up at the heavens, in wonder, in prayer, or, for a tragic few, in terror. Others knelt or stood in prayer. Some stood in circles around a trusted minister or simply a man of the regiment who everyone acknowledged "had the ear of the Lord." Some sang hymns, others recited psalms, a group of Catholics knelt before a makeshift altar while a priest offered up mass and then absolution.

  Others wrote letters home, or if they could not write, dictated a few lines that a comrade would jot down. The darkness deepened, the sky a deep indigo, and he sat in silence, smoking, and watching the far bank of the river.

  Home of Dr. O'Neill Near Monocacy function

  7:30 P.M.

  Emily looked out the window, watching as the hills to the west darkened, the last glow of twilight fading, a cooling breeze fluttering the curtains. "Emily?" "Yes, James."

  She reached out and took his hand. Her father, on the other side of the bed, wiped James's brow with a damp towel.

  "Is it dark out?"

  "Yes, dearest."

  He smiled.

  "Thought I couldn't see anymore."

  Reverend Lacy sat by her side, hand on James's chest. He looked over at her and she could see in his eyes that he sensed something.

  He suddenly arched his back, struggling to take a breath, the struggle continuing for long seconds.

  "Dearest, dearest," she gasped, standing up and leaning over him.

  "You'll always love me, Emi?"

  "You are my husband now."

  "I'll wait for you. Please wait..."

  He took another breath and then seemed to fall back, his body beginning to relax.

  "The Lord is my shepherd," McPherson whispered as he gently exhaled.

  "I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures," Lacy replied.

  She could feel his hand relax. Leaning over, she felt his last breath drift out of his body and, instinctively, she breathed in, as if by so doing she could take his soul into hers.

  "He leadeth me beside the still waters," Lacy contin-^ ued.

  She whispered the psalm with him, and when finished stood up and let James's hand slip from hers.

  Strange, she felt as if his presence were still there and then was, ever so gently, drifting away.

  Lacy stood up. He closed James's eyes and pulled the sheet over his face.

  He was silent as Emily walked to the window, the evening breeze drifting in. In the west the evening star was shining. She knew then that if she should live another fifty years, every time she saw it, she would think of him, of this moment.

  There would never be another in her life. There would be no children, no years of growing old together, of watching a family grow even as they faded away. This war had taken all that away.

  In the fields below her, hundreds of campfires glowed. It was a beautiful sight, and at that moment she could see why her husband had loved it so. This world of men—of such violence—was a world also of comradeship. Behind her she heard muffled sobs, of her father, her mother, and of young Captain Cain, weeping for a fallen enemy who had become a comrade.

  The campfires flickered and glowed. How many of those gathered about them tonight will be with my husband tomorrow? she wondered. How many wives at home prayed tonight, mothers and fathers, children and friends, and tomorrow their worlds will end as mine just has.

  Would anyone realize that? she wondered. Yes, those who suffered what we have. But later, long afterward, would anyone care? Would anyone remember?

  And long years from now, when others spoke of this time and dwelt upon its supposed glories, who would think then of those left behind? Who would think of a childless, aging widow, dying alone, hoping that her young love did indeed wait for her in heaven?

  Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 8:00 P.M.

  General Lee smiled and nodded as Pete Longstreet came to his side carrying a folding camp chair. "Mind if I join you, General?" "Glad for the company." Pete unfolded the chair and sat down by Lee.

  "Beautiful evening," Lee said.

  Pete nodded in agreement, lighting a cigar and puffing it to life.

  The valley below them was aglow with campfires, the evening air cooling, darkness cloaking the mountains, the woods, and fields. From both sides of Monocacy Creek came singing, some boys shouting out "Bonnie Blue Flag" and seconds later the other side of the creek echoing to "The Battle Hymn of the Republic."

  "A regular song fest by the bridge tonight," Pete said quietly. "I dare say, those must be Irish boys over there; they have some good tenors.

  "Strange isn't it? Serenading each other on the eve of battle."

  "Happened before, week before Chancellorsville," Lee said. "They finished with both sides singing 'Home Sweet Home.'"

  Lee fell silent for a moment, voice near to choking at the memory of it, the way it had started out with patriotic airs, then to songs from before the war, and then finished with the haunting refrain, "Be it
ever so humble, there's no place like home."

  'Tomorrow should decide it," Lee said, regaining his composure. "I hope so, sir."

  "You don't sound the way you did that night before Union Mills," Lee said, looking over at his old comrade.

  "That seems a long time ago," Pete replied meditatively. "Why?"

  "It's just that they don't stop. They just keep coming at us. Before Union Mills, I saw it clearly. Lure them into that one great fight, which we did, and they would see our resolve and bring an end to it. And now, two months later, here we are again, another army before us."

  He gestured to the campfires on the far side of the creek.

  "Just about a year ago we crossed through this same ground. Just on the other side of those mountains we fought Sharpsburg, and I remember those campfires and the evening rain. Then the cold night before Fredericksburg and the thousands of fires."

  The chorus from the other side echoed. "I have seen him in the watch fires of a hundred circling camps."

  Pete fell silent.

  "It will end here," Lee whispered. "I hope so." "I know so."

  Lee reached out and patted Pete on the knee.

  "It will end here. That army across from us is the last they have. They will venture it tomorrow. We saw their first lunge late this afternoon, and they drew back and spent hundreds to our few score. That was just a probe, a test. Tomorrow Grant will come at us with everything he has. They will come again tomorrow, and it will be like Fredericksburg, like Union Mills."

  Lee smiled.

  "And you, my old warhorse, will hold the center."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Generals."

  Walter Taylor approached and Lee could tell by his demeanor that the news was not good. "Go on, Walter."

  "Sir, a message just came up from Doctor O'Neill's house. General McPherson is dead. Sir, my condolences, I know how close you were to him."