"Yes, I am an uncle, and a grandfather as well," Jim said, bracing his shoulders slightly. "I have a son and a grandson with Burnside's Corps; they're fighting even now up there. And I worked in the White House as the head butler before volunteering."
As he spoke, he motioned to the north and the distant gunfire.
Slightly humbled, Jeremiah dropped his condescending tone and extended his hand.
"Maj. Jeremiah Siemens." He paused. "Mr. Bartlett."
Jim took his hand formally. "How may we be of service to you this morning, Major."
Jim looked over at Winfield.
"Mr. Bartlett," Winfield said, "we need miles of trenches and fortifications in place no later than tomorrow. Major Siemens here has laid out the plan, but we are short of men, short by tens of thousands of the men needed to build them."
"That is why we volunteered," Jim replied.
Even as they spoke, another barge came up, several dozen black men getting off, then turning around to lend a hand with off-loading the barrels of salt pork and heavy small crates marked MUSKET ROUNDS, .58 CALIBER, ONE THOUSAND.
Behind them, farther up the towpath, more men came forward slowly, having walked the entire distance from Washington.
"Well, Jeremiah?" Winfield asked.
"Ah, let's see."
Confused, he looked down at his map and then at Winfield.
"I'm waiting, Jeremiah," Winfield said calmly.
"Mr. Bartlett, I am hereby appointing you as my assistant and commander of the Washington Colored Volunteers," he blurted out.
There was a chorus of chuckles from those gathered round, a few cheers, and offers of congratulations to Jim.
"I want you to start organizing your men into groups of a hundred. Appoint a..." he hesitated, "a captain to command each group of a hundred, and that captain to appoint sergeants who will command ten men. I'll have my men down here within thirty minutes. One of my men will then lead each group of a hundred and will be assigned a section that we'll start to stake out, and your men are to, well, start digging in and cutting out trees to create fields of fire."
"What we came here for, boss," someone in the crowd shouted, and there was another chorus of cheers.
Jeremiah, still a bit flustered, looked over at Winfield, who simply nodded.
"I'll be back in thirty minutes, so I think you better get busy, Mr. Bartlett."
"Some of the boys are mighty hungry," Jim said. "They've walked all night."
Winfield stepped up and motioned to the men off-loading the barrels of salt pork.
"Our infantry came up with five days of rations. I think we can use the reserves for your men," Winfield said. "Mr. Bartlett, have someone who was a cook pick out fifty men to stay behind from the digging. They can set up kitchen areas down here."
He pointed to the ground between the canal and the river.
"Also, appoint another hundred men to work on setting up encampments, digging latrines, and making shelters for your volunteers."
"A lot of orders," Jim said.
"Welcome to command, Mr. Bartlett," Winfield said with a smile. "I'll countermand only one of the major's orders. You don't answer to him. From now on you will report di-recdy to me."
"Yes, sir," Jim said.
Winfield nodded and limped off, Jeremiah following him.
"What a blessing," Winfield said. "A message caught up to me from Elihu Washburne during the night, said that the colored men of Washington are pouring out by the thousands, maybe ten thousand or more, to volunteer their help up here."
"Lord knows, we can use them," Jeremiah replied, "but, sir, getting them organized, setting them to organized work. Building entrenchments, bastions, and clearing fields of fire isn't just simply digging a ditch."
"Who do you think built most of the fortifications around Washington? No one ever gives them the credit. I'm willing to bet, sir, you will find some damn good engineers, not formally educated but practical and experienced, back in that crowd."
"And what if the rebs come?"
"They will come."
"I mean, sir, what if they come and break through? Those men—" and he motioned to the volunteers who were now milling around Jim, shouting, asking for orders, asking for command positions, arguing with him that they didn't hike fifty miles just to be cooks.
"What about them?" Jeremiah asked.
"If it comes to a breakthrough, I'll tell them to fight, and they will fight. They walked here to help win their own freedom and their relatives' freedom. They are prepared to risk their lives as well as their sweat."
Two Miles North of Hauling Ferry 9:30 A.M.
Phil Duvall slipped up cautiously to the edge of the tree line. Yankee troopers and infantry occupied the ground just ahead, spread out in a thick skirmish line, hunkered down behind a low split-rail fence bordering an open pasture. It had cost him seven men to get up this far, and he knew he'd only have a few minutes before the Yankees began to push back.
He scanned the sloping ground ahead, this low crest dropping down into an open pasture, then undulating back up to a low rise a half mile away. An open ravine with a creek weaving through it dropped down to his right, leaving an open vista to the Potomac. He could barely see the canal. If he had had the nerve, he might have tried to climb a tree for a better view, but the Yankees on the other side of the pasture were proving to be damn good shots. He wouldn't last long in a tree.
One of his troopers, providing covering fire for him, knelt, took aim, and fired, and a split second later crumpled over, shot in the head.
Phil raised his field glasses and scanned the opposite slope and his heart dropped. All along the opposite low-lying ridge men were at work. He could see dirt flying into the air, the diggers invisible below their thighs in places. Curiously, many wore blue trousers, their uniform jackets discarded, white shirts standing out clear, but mingled in, in far greater numbers, were colored men. An entire woodlot of several acres was rapidly being cut down, trees crashing, teams of a dozen men harnessed to ropes, laboriously dragging trimmed logs up the slope. Others were taking the branches and weaving them into large oversize baskets, as thick around as a barrel and nearly as tall as a man, setting them in place atop the earthworks while others then shoveled dirt into them.
One crew, of well over a hundred men, working with a team of a half dozen mules, was slowly dragging what appeared to be a long black tube along the crest. He tried to focus in on it. It looked to be the biggest gun he had ever seen, one of the legendary hundred-pound Parrotts.
It was. Behind them, coming into view, was another crew of a hundred colored men, dragging a heavy iron gun carriage, the mount for the piece.
A spray of bark and splinters and tree sap smacked against the side of his face. He ducked back behind the tree. Two more minie" balls whizzed in, kicking up dirt to either side of him.
"Major, sir, I didn't ride with you for two years just to see you killed now," Sergeant Lucas hissed, lying flat on his stomach behind the tree next to him.
Phil looked up.
Damn, mounted troops, a hundred or more, were coming down from the crest, riding hard.
"Major, sir, really I think it's time we got the hell out of here."
Phil forced a tight smile and nodded. He had seen what he had been sent to see, and now it was time, as Lucas said, to get "the hell out of here."
"Come on!"
He stood up and sprinted to the rear.
Headquarters of the Army of Northern Virginia Monocacy Creek
10:00 A.M.
Why don't they come on?" Lee asked impatiently, pacing back and forth, looking over at Pete, who paced alongside of him. The firing had been going on since dawn. Of the hundred guns down at McCausland Farm, barely half were still firing. Ten thousand shells or more had turned the ground around the farm into a plowed-up wasteland, the brick farmhouse pounded into wreckage.
All along the riverfront the firing was continuing, both sides taking losses, but nothing that would even b
egin to indicate a clear decision.
A thunderclap rolled up from the south, another caisson going up, and that decided it for him.
"Walter, my compliments to General Alexander. Tell him to pass the word down to the battery commanders at McCausland to mount up and withdraw out of range."
Walter almost seemed to breathe a sigh of relief with that order. The men all along the ridge had been watching the duel since dawn, cheering when an enemy gun was wiped out, groaning when two, three, and four of those at McCausland fell victim.
Walter mounted and rode off.
It was impossible to see anything now. The entire riverfront for miles was enveloped in a dank, yellow-gray smoke.
"Perhaps that will draw him in," Lee said. Longstreet did not reply.
This fight was proving to be different. Grant was showing a cagey side, the hours of bombardment, as if to indicate he had ammunition to burn. And I do, too, and more will be on its way from Baltimore once the tangle of trains is unsnarled.
Burnside would have just come in blindly, Hooker would have at least made a lunge, then perhaps frozen, and McClellan ... well, if it was McClellan over there I would have already crossed the river myself and gone after him.
For a moment he was tempted to order just that. To send Beauregard's men, who made up most of his reserve, into an attack, but the Yankees had dug in well on the opposite bank, and though they would not advance, he knew they would not give back easily.
So far we've most likely lost a thousand, perhaps two thousand, to an equal number. Something has to break soon, Lee thought. He has to come on.
Hunt's Battery 10:45 AM.
Damn good work, boys!" Hunt shouted. "Damn good work!"
Now mounted, he trotted down the line, shouting his congratulations, the men cheering as he passed.
"What do you think of Western gunners now, sir?" one of them yelled out.
The question actually gave him painful pause for a second, remembering the bloody defense at Gettysburg, the sacrifice of Stevens's Battery, the final stand in the cemetery. And all of them gone now.
He slowed, then remembered to stay in this moment, not to dwell on the bitter past.
"You're damn good lads and I'm proud of you!"
His response drew a cheer and he rode on.
The men were exhausted; many had stripped off their jackets, sweat streaming down their bodies. The August sun beat down on them; gun barrels were so hot that to touch them would fry a man's flesh.
As his batteries ceased fire, men were already swabbing and reswabbing the bores, the sponges hissing and steaming as they were slammed in.
Limber wagons were coming up, circling around, ignoring the incoming fire that still rained down from the center of the rebel line, crews rushing up to off-load ammunition and carry it into the bombproofs.
He passed an entire team of gunners who had been wiped out, all of them killed when a well-placed case shot detonated directly above them. Stretcher bearers ignored them, going down the line to pick up the wounded. Even in victory there would be the casualties.
Eleven of his guns had been disabled in the fight, wheels taken off, barrels hit and dismounted, or bursting case shot killing everyone gathered around a piece.
As always, the wounds to artillerymen were the most horrific. A solid shot had torn off the wheel of a Parrott gun, then slashed clean through the solid oak of the trail piece, killing or wounding the entire crew; one man was impaled against the side of the lunette, a spoke from the wheel driven through his stomach, pinning him to the wall. To Henry's absolute horror, the man was still alive, groaning softly, several comrades gathered round him, debating whether to try to move him or not. A surgeon came up and Henry prayed that the man had the courage to inject him with so much morphine that he would slip away.
He turned his head away and rode on.
Another shot winged in from the distant rebel position, this one either damn well aimed or pure luck. It hit a caisson moving up. The caisson, loaded with fifty shells and over a hundred pounds of powder, exploded with a roar, the entire team of six horses blown down, debris soaring heavenward. Seconds later a distant roar went up. It was a defiant rebel yell.
His own gunners turned, facing the rebs, waving clenched fists, vowing revenge.
Henry continued to ride on, inspecting his pieces. He knew the next stage was about to begin. The question now was simply when.
Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna 11:00 A.M.
Grant lit what was now the tenth cigar of the day, coughing slightly as he puffed it to life, remaining motionless in his camp chair, just sitting silently, watching the fight. Actually, it was now impossible to see much of anything. No wind had stirred, the day was getting hot, typical of late August, with only a few puffy clouds overhead to indicate a storm later in the day.
The entire river valley was hidden in smoke, the rattle of musketry and the booming of the artillery incessant. And yet it had settled into a dull steady pattern, punctuated only by loud huzzahs from Hunt's batteries about twenty minutes ago when it became evident that the rebels they had been pounding all morning were pulling back.
A telegraph line had been run out from the town during the night. The men within the signals tent were bent over their strange machines and cases of batteries that emitted a strange acid smell.
The key started to clatter again, and he stood up, unable to contain himself. This had to be it. It had to be.
He realized he was making a display of anxiety and forced himself to turn back, acting as if he was continuing to survey the smoke-filled valley and the battle that thundered there, which, so far, had not changed ownership of even one inch of ground.
Ely was over at the tent. From the corner of his eye Grant saw his adjutant running toward him, grinning. "Sir, it's from Port Deposit." "Go on."
"Fleet left at dawn. Should be coming into position by now. Second report from observation post opposite Baltimore confirms the report." Grant smiled.
In one sense, it was a miracle. Here he was on this battlefield, and yet news from a hundred miles away had just been handed to him.
He took a deep breath.
He had held Lee's attention since dawn. Now would have to come the bloody part to keep that attention fixed. He looked over at Ely. 'Tell General Ord to go in," he said calmly.
Baltimore 11:00 A.M.
Mr. Secretary, I think you'd better come out and see this." Judah looked up at the Confederate officer, one of Pickett's men standing in the doorway of his hotel suite. "What is it?"
"Sir, General Pickett requests you come out and have a look. Something is up with the Yankees."
Judah headed for the door, leaving his jacket behind. It was another typical Baltimore summer day. The day had turned hot and sultry. Leaving the hotel, he followed the officer up the street to Battery Park. Scores of civilians were heading in the same direction, talking excitedly, and already he had a good guess as to what to expect as he crossed through the picket line at the entry to the fort and then up to where George Pickett stood, looking out over the harbor.
Directly below, within easy gunnery range, was Fort McHenry, its large garrison flag coiling and drifting above the fort. But that was not what was drawing interest. In the outer harbor a flotilla of several dozen ships was just visible in the late-moming haze on the water, dark coils of smoke rising from ships a half dozen miles away.
Pickett turned and bowed formally as Judah approached.
"Mr. Secretary, I think the Yankees are up to something."
"How long have they been out there?"
"Lookouts first reported the smoke an hour ago coming down from the north." Pickett motioned for Judah to take a look through a telescope.
He bent over, the telescope focused on a side-wheel steamship with three masts. It was a heavy oceangoing vessel. Its side wheels were churning the water, bow almost straight on. He studied it carefully. It was hard to tell, but it looked as if the deck was packed with blue ... Union infantr
y.
At the head of the flotilla came a half dozen gunboats and four heavy monitor ironclads, guns pointing menacingly toward the city.
He stood back and looked over at Pickett.
"What do you think, General?"
"Don't rightly know, sir. But if they do move into the inner harbor, should I fire on them?"
"What did General Lee order you to do."
"Hold this city until he finished off Grant."
Judah could detect a bitterness in Pickett's voice. He made no comment about it. It had been reported to him that Pickett was heard complaining that Lee was blaming him for the devastation of his division at Gunpowder River, and that he had only been "following the old man's orders."
He wanted in on the fight now taking place out at Frederick and chaffed at being left behind.
Shortly after dawn everyone in Baltimore knew that something was happening in Frederick. In the early-morning silence all could hear the distant thunder. Window-panes were rattling and excited boys, climbing to the tops of church steeples, shouted down that they could see smoke on the horizon.
But there was no news, other than the fact that a bombardment had started at dawn ... and nothing else.
An officer came riding up, arm in a sling, and dismounted, coming up to join the two. It was Lo Armistead.
"So what is it?" Lo asked.
"We're not sure," Pickett replied.
Lo looked through the telescope for a moment
"It's an assault force," he announced.
Judah had to nod in agreement, even as Pickett returned to the telescope, bent down, and scanned the approaching ships.
"Who is it?" Judah asked. "Where did they come from?"
"First observations were that they were coming down from farther up the Chesapeake," Pickett said, eye still glued to the telescope.
"Then it's got to be that damned Army of the Potomac," Lo replied. "They just won't die, they just won't die."
"I thought we destroyed them last week," Judah said.
Lo looked over at him and shook his head.
"Yes and no, sir. Maybe ten thousand or more eventually got out. A few, a tough few. Last report was that old Sykes was in charge of them. A slow and deliberate man, but tough in a fight. We faced him at Taneytown.
Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 Page 31
