"Oh, lordy," the gunner sighed. "You boys, stick to us like ticks on a dog."
"We will."
"They're coming!"
He could hear them now, the high-pitched yelping. The smoke had cleared just enough that they were visible, a couple of hundred yards off, a line astride the railroad track, spread a couple of hundred yards to either flank, red banners to the fore.
He looked back. Up and down the railroad cut for as far as he could see men were up against the embankments; a roar was thundering back from the east end, down by the river. From what little he had learned so far in the army, he knew their position was a bad one. They were like a long thin line, men almost literally back-to-back along the railroad line. The rebs coming at them had them at a right angle. Other rebs were swarming around to either side; from the far river-bank long-range shot and shells were beginning to rain in.
They were cut off, surrounded.
Someone slapped him on the shoulder, and he turned. A young white soldier pushed two packs of cartridges, ten rounds in each, into his hand. Behind him half a dozen other white soldiers had laid down two wooden cases of ammunition. One had already pried it open with a bayonet, torn off the tin waterproof cover, and was piling out ten packs of cartridges, men coming over to scoop them.
We're going to need every round, Sergeant Major Bartlett realized.
"Case shot, one-second fuse!"
The gunners were well practiced, a young boy running up bearing the shell, which was rammed home.
"You colored boys, stand back!" a gunnery sergeant yelled, even as he stepped back from the piece, his lanyard taut.
He jerked the lanyard—an explosive roar, the Napoleon kicking back several feet. The shell detonated directly ahead of the advancing line, dropping several. A man was screaming on the other side of the gun, clutching a crushed foot, the gun having gone over it.
"I told you to stand back!" the sergeant screamed.
"Case shot, one-second fuse!"
The rebel advance stopped. He could see them raising their pieces up, then bringing them level. "Down! Get down!"
A second later the volley swept the front of the barricade, minie balls striking iron railing, railroad ties, snapping through the flag, and striking men as well.
"Aimed fire, boys!" Bartlett shouted. "Careful aiming. Now give it to them."
The fight was on again. Seconds later the Napoleon fired, the shell disappearing into the smoke. To his horror, Washington Bartlett realized at that moment that his son, if still alive, was somewhere over there, in the direction they were shooting. Any round going high was most likely plowing into the hospital area.
He raised his own rifle, aimed very low, and fired.
10:55 A.M.
Oh, this is beautiful, just beautiful," Henry Hunt exclaimed as he paced behind the new line he had just set up, facing south. He ignored the enfilading artillery fire coming from across the river, which had already dismounted or struck down two of his guns.
It was the target before him that counted.
The last of Ord's broken men had streamed past his position, and now, four hundred yards out, an entire division of rebel infantry was coming straight at him. He had over sixty guns lined up. Not as many as Malvern Hill, but more than Gettysburg.
He had full faith in his gunners. They had proven themselves yesterday in the bombardment of the McCausland Farm. And now they had infantry before them, a beautiful wide target spread out over a half mile. Three brigades in the lead, two more a hundred yards behind. And behind them another division four hundred yards farther back, struggling to reform after their initial clash earlier in the morning.
"Fire!"
This was not a single salvo. He had ordered his battery commanders to carefully check aim and elevation and make every shot count.
The guns directly in front of him went off. Seconds later more opened up, the last firing maybe thirty seconds later. Commands were being shouted, "Case shot, two-second fuse!" "Roll 'em up, boys." "Sergeant, check that elevation screw. Raise it half a turn!"
Field glasses were useless in the smoke. He squatted down, trying to see under the billowing clouds created by the guns just fired, and was delighted. Shells were bursting right in front of the advancing line, puffs of dirt geysering from the shells with percussion fuses, some of the shots going high, but some of the high ones hitting the second line.
Excellent shooting.
He knew when to fall silent, to step back, which he now did. And his men went to work.
ll:OOA.M.
‘I want my divisions back in!" Beauregard shouted. Robertson's and McLaw's divisions had taken the lead in the assault, passing through and beyond his own two divisions, which had delivered a savage beating to the Yankees but in turn had been torn apart.
He regretted now, more than ever, not waiting for them to come up, to have sent all four in at once. They could have gone through like a battering ram, but then again, the delay might have allowed the Yankees to do what they were now doing, shifting guns about, bringing up more men.
Johnston had not listened to him at Shiloh about his deployment before the attack, packing the men in too close so that all command and control had been lost, and he had been saddled with the blame.
Now Lee would blame him for the loss of momentum. Damn it, well, let Lee try to maneuver twenty-five thousand men on one narrow road, then go into a fight.
To his right the Yankees were digging in along the railroad track. Already the position reminded him of the infamous Hornets Nest of Shiloh.
Turn on it, wipe it out completely, or push toward Frederick and leave Robertson behind, or order Robertson to echelon to the left and avoid it as well?
But battle was already joined. Robertson was sending his men straight in. He would have to leave him behind.
Beauregard pointed up the road toward Frederick, shouting for his own men to form and get back into the attack.
"Come on, boys, come on! We can still take them! Come on, move it!"
His two divisions started forward, not with the beautiful formation and elan of dawn. They had marched over six miles since they began and fought one pitched battle already, but nevertheless they went forward, heading toward the sound of the guns.
Relay Station ■ Ten Miles West of Baltimore
11:15 A.M.
Gen. George Sykes leaned out of the railroad car that served as his headquarters. On the parallel track an engine inched forward, railroad workers jumping off the flatcars they had been riding on, a team handing down several rails, eight men shouldering the rail and running forward. 'Two more breaks in the line, General, sir." The yard boss, some Irishman by his brogue, gave a bit of an impertinent salute and ran forward with his men.
George stepped down from the car and walked forward. Behind him another train was easing to a stop, in front of the engine was a massive flatcar converted into a rolling fortress, an armored car they called it, the barrel of a thirty-pounder protruding from the iron-plated front.
A similar car was at the front of his own train and the one on the parallel track.
Ahead there was the rattle of skirmishing, some rebs visible on the track perhaps six hundred yards away, a marine detachment pushing them back.
Strange, all this, George thought as he leaned against the armored car to watch the laborers at work.
After surviving the debacle at Gunpowder River, he had assumed the few battered survivors of the Army of the Potomac would be disbanded and sent to other units, the name 1 of that famed command stricken from the records forever. Then had come the hand-delivered dispatch from the War Office, countersigned by Grant, specifically laying out a detailed plan that had stunned him.
He was to reorganize the survivors into a single corps, out of deference to him, the Fifth Corps. Units were to be banded together by the states they came from. The men would be resupplied, which they were, then told to rest and wait, which they did for five days.
And then word had come to prepare to move. The men
had marched up to the Northeast River, ten miles back from the Susquehanna, to Charlestown. That night a flotilla of transport ships arrived, and the next morning they had steamed out, racing south.
Off the mouth of the Patapsco River at the entrance to Baltimore they had joined a second flotilla, this one actually commanded by Farragut himself, many of the ships having come up from the siege of Charleston. There were deepwater ships: transports crammed with marines and sailors converted to infantry, ironclads, and long flat barges carrying the trains he and some of his command now rode in.
Baltimore, contrary to expectations, had fallen with barely a shot being fired, except by the garrison at McHenry.
There had been some rioting, which the sailors were assigned to put down while he and his valiant few, his Army of the Potomac, reinforced by the marines, set off.
His first concern was that the rebs might blow up the huge stone viaduct at Relay Station. Thus once the armored cars and their locomotives were rolled off the trains at the dockyard and switched onto the Baltimore and Ohio's main line, he had set off. The charge by rail worked. Their arrival at dark sent the rebs scurrying back across the bridge, and dawn revealed that their commander, who he now learned was Lo Armistead, had indeed been trying to find enough powder to stuff up under one of the arches of the bridge to bring it down. Armistead had failed, and so they had been able to continue pushing west.
Today, though, had been frustratingly slow work. The rebs kept tearing up the track ahead, smashing switches. An armored car would be raced forward, firing its massive gun, and they'd scatter, pull back, and then resume their desperate work.
And yet they were moving forward, mile by mile. He knew his nickname, whispered behind his back, 'Tardy George."
The hell with them. His tardiness, as some called it, was being methodical and, by God, he certainly was not tardy at Taneytown. If only Sickles had listened to him at Gunpowder River and gone a bit more slowly, this whole operation would be different now.
The yard boss stood up, waved his hand, indicating the rail was fixed. The engine vented steam and George walked back to the command car behind the locomotive, climbing aboard. During their stop a telegrapher had hooked into the line and handed George the latest news.
"Heavy fighting all along the line at Frederick. Grant."
There was no need to be told that. Whenever the train stopped all could hear the rumble in the distance.
The yard boss ran back aboard his own train on the parallel track, saw George, saluted again, then turned to one of his men, who reluctantly offered up a bottle out of his pocket.
"How much we paying that man?" George asked of one of his staff.
"Sixty a day."
"Damn, I don't even make that much. I don't even think the president himself makes that much."
"Well, sir, he said that's what the rebels paid him, and he did his utmost to play hell with them. He was the only one around, and he does good work. Almost everybody with the Military Railroad command are still up in Harrisburg or repairing the Cumberland line."
"More than the president," George mumbled.
The train moved forward, gaining a little speed. Through the window he could see where the rebels had torn off several rails, heated them, and then bent them around a telegraph pole. The train shifted slightly as it crossed over the patched section, rolled forward another half mile, then slowed again.
Another break, damn it.
It was slow, he knew, but it was relentless. On the road parallel to the track, infantry was marching forward, the shot-torn standard of the old Fifth Corps at the fore.
The Army of the Potomac was marching toward the battle. Slow as ever, perhaps, but it was in the field again—and looking for a fight.
Hunt's batteries were lost in clouds of smoke. It was impossible to see them other than by the flash of their guns. Grant looked back toward Frederick. McPherson's boys were up, forming at the edge of town, four thousand of them, but ready to refight a battle the way they had done two days ago, street by street.
Around Grant his staff was hurrying about, packing up map cases and field desks and piling equipment into the single wagon that served as his headquarters, now harnessed to a team, back end open. Several enlisted men started to drop his tent.
"Leave that be," Grant shouted. "It's not important now. Get mounted and ready to move."
The rebel charge was still coming forward, picking up momentum. Hunt was already flanked but still holding on. He was tempted to ride down to him, but decided against it.
I am not a corps commander. He had to force himself to remember it. Nor even in command of a mere army. The telegraph connection that was being taken down even now was his link to an elaborate operation on three fronts in Maryland as well as to Sherman down in Georgia; the battle directly before him was not his only concern.
And besides, if I go dashing about, that will infect everyone. It always does. Stay calm, stay calm.
The last of the headquarters gear was packed up. The telegraphy wagon, was already on the move toward town.
He motioned for the headquarters wagon to set off, the driver looking back anxiously toward the rebs swarming up the road less than a quarter mile away now.
Ely led over Grant's horse and he mounted, making it a point to do nothing for a moment, taking the time to light a cigar.
He could see Ely was agitated. Minies were zipping by. He puffed on the cigar for a moment, watching them. Nodded and turned Cincinnatus.
Without a word he rode toward the town.
Chapter 18
With General Lee
Noon
Gen. Robert E. Lee reached the edge of the ford, several companies of cavalry deployed around him in a protective circle, carbines and pistols drawn.
The Union position here had just collapsed, nearly a thousand men taken prisoner, nearly all of them Ord's men, including General Ord himself, with a scattering of colored troops mixed in.
The ground was carpeted with bodies, ambulances from both sides now picking men up, six and seven to an ambulance, to be taken into the Confederate lines. Several surgeons were at work in the field, awnings set up, a vast sea of agony around them.
He spotted Jubal Early, standing by one of the tents, leaning on one of his staff, pants leg torn off just above the thigh, blood streaming down from his knee.
Lee rode up and dismounted, going to Jubal's side.
"I'm sorry to see you are hurt, sir," Lee said.
"Think I'll lose the leg," Jubal said weakly.
"Perhaps it will not prove to be that bad," Lee lied, a quick look down revealed that a bullet had shattered the poor man's kneecap. That he was even coherent at this point with such an agonizing wound was a mark of the man's strength.
"I've turned what's left of my division over to John Gordon," Jubal said, motioning toward the creek, "but sir, frankly, I no longer have a division. It is completely fought out."
"You did well this day, sir," Lee said, touching him lightly on the shoulder and then returned to Traveler and mounted.
The Union prisoners were slowly shuffling to the rear, many of them detailed to help carry wounded from both sides. It was a procession of agony, men crying, many in shock, some looking up at Lee in wonder, more than a few in defiance.
He saw a small number of black prisoners, with one white officer, being herded off to one side, the men surrounding them shoving with rifle butts and bayonet points. Lee went over to them.
"What is going on here?" he snapped.
A surprised sergeant looked up.
"Sergeant, what is your name?"
"Len Gardner, sir, Third Louisiana."
Lee turned to Walter.
"Note that name, Walter. Sergeant Gardner, if I hear of any accounts of abuse of prisoners I shall personally hold you responsible."
The group ducked down as an errant shell screamed overhead.
The white Union officer stood up first and stepped to Lee's side and saluted.
"Capt. Averall Heyward. Thank you, sir. I think they were getting set to execute us."
"That's a damn lie," Gardner cried.
Lee looked at Gardner and fixed him with a cold gaze.
"I tend to believe this officer's word over yours," Lee snapped.
"Captain, take your men, fall in with the other prisoners. You will be well treated. Walter, write down the following:
"I have spoken personally with the Union officer bearing this note. He shall report to me after the action of this day to inform me of any abuse dealt to him or any other man or officer serving with the United States Colored Troops."
Walter jotted down the note and handed the pad over.
Lee signed it, tore the sheet of paper off, and handed it to the officer.
"As more colored prisoners come in, use this note to round them up and keep them with you. One of my staff will stay behind with you to insure all of you are treated properly. That note will serve as a pass to my headquarters after this battle is over as long as you give me your parole now not to try to escape."
"God bless you, sir," the captain replied and saluted. "And I give you my parole on my word of honor as an officer."
"And God be with you, Captain."
Lee turned and rode to the edge of the ford and then spotted Ord. The man was surrounded by several staff officers and a lone Confederate guard. He was wounded, hit in the arm, which was already in a sling. Lee approached him and dismounted.
"General, are you sorely hurt?" Lee asked.
Ord looked at Lee and actually grinned.
"Not as badly as your men are, sir. Pardon me, sir, but we gave you a hell of a fight here."
"That you did, General."
"We bled you out here. My boys put up a hell of a fight to the bitter end."
"You can be proud of them, General." "Thank you, sir."
"A question, General. Are any of the colored troops with you?"
"No, they are with Sheridan." "Sheridan?"
Ord grinned. "He took over Burnside's command two days ago. Maybe that explains why they are fighting so ferociously over there." Ord pointed toward the smoke-shrouded railroad cuts."
Lee remounted and rode off. He shook his head with anger. "We must not lose our heads, our moral compass as
Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 Page 40
