Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03

by Newt Gingrich; William R Forstchen

  Standing up, he led his men over the river.

  Sergeant Major Bartlett led the skirmish line that cautiously advanced toward the ford. The regimenf was, in fact, nothing more now than a skirmish line, maybe a hundred men still standing. Sheridan rode behind them, a regiment of white troops spreading out.

  Bartlett scanned the ground ahead and finally saw what he was looking for, the hospital area, and sprinted toward it. It was indeed a charnel house, several thousand men on the ground, many Confederates now mixed in, men left behind by their retreating foe.

  He ignored his duty for the moment, his friend John Miller by his side, walking back and forth until he "spotted the regimental surgeon, down on the ground, a Confederate soldier lying on his side, groaning, as the surgeon probed into his shoulder and then pulled out a rifle ball. "Doctor!"

  The surgeon looked up and recognized Washington, his features grim. "My son?" "Over there."

  His son was lying by the colonel's side as if asleep. Both of them were dead.

  Washington stopped, unable to move. Washington felt as if struck. He could not move or speak, then he slowly sank to his knees, gathering the limp body, still warm, into his arms.

  Washington started to rock back and forth, cradling his son.

  "Sergeant Major!"

  He looked up. Phil Sheridan was gazing down at him. "What's wrong?" "My son," he whispered. Phil stiffened and said nothing for a moment. "What's your name. Sergeant Major?" Washington could not reply. "Washington Quincy Bartlett," John Miller said. "I saw you today, Bartlett, the way you held the barricade, rallied the men. Do you know what the Medal of Honor is?" Washington could not reply.

  "I'm putting you in for one," Phil said, and he paused, as if adding an afterthought, "and my condolences, Sergeant." Phil rode on.

  Washington did not even really hear what he said. All that he had fought for now rested limp in his arms.

  It was far too much for Washington, and he dissolved into tears, still rocking back and forth, Miller kneeling by his side.

  Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 7:00 P.M.

  ‘We have three choices," Lee said softly. "We can resume the assault tomorrow, we can stand, or we can withdraw."

  None dared to reply. Longstreet was absolutely silent, staring off. Hood had been wounded in the arm down by the Hornets Nest, and the surgeon had just reported he would most likely lose it. Beauregard, claiming fatigue, had withdrawn to his tent. Jeb, head and arm bandaged, sat across from Lee.

  "I say fight," Jeb said softly. "I was within a couple of hundred feet of the heights before the attack collapsed. I still could have taken it."

  Lee did not reply directly. He knew Jeb had barely gotten halfway up, losing scores of troopers trying to charge the guns while still mounted.

  Lee looked over at Walter and then to Judah.

  "Withdraw," Judah Benjamin said calmly.

  "Why so?"

  "Sir, I am no general or tactician. But the campaign here in Maryland is over."

  "We came so close today," Lee whispered, as if in shock. "So close. I could see victory like a golden light above our colors. So close."

  He fell silent.

  "Grant's army is as badly mauled as ours," Jeb said. "We can finish him tomorrow."

  "And how many more armies will be here this dme tomorrow?" Judah said. "Another Confederate army perhaps?"

  Lee looked over at him stonily.

  "No, there will be no more armies," Lee replied, "no more reinforcements. We are it."

  "And how many men are still capable of fighting?" Lee looked over to Walter.

  "Sir, there are no clear reports yet. It will take days. Every division was engaged. Robertson is dead, so is McLaw, both their divisions fought out. Beauregard's two divisions in the assault, I'd guess, fifty percent or more lost."

  "General Longstreet, your command?" Lee asked.

  "Fought out, sir."

  Lee looked at him carefully. He had not yet asked why Longstreet had not pushed the attack more boldly from the northern flank and in the center. But he suspected he knew the answer. Longstreet was trying to hold some strength back.

  Longstreet finally stirred.

  "This army has lost nearly half its fighting strength in the last three days. I suspect casualties will be in excess of twenty-five thousand, perhaps close to thirty. Added to our losses of last week at Gunpowder River and the earlier-losses in front of Washington and at Union Mills and Gettysburg—the Army of Northern Virginia is finished as an offensive force."

  He had said it straight out. Bluntly and without tact.

  Lee nodded, dipping his head.

  "Sir, it is time to get this army south of the Potomac," Judah said, forcing his way back into the conversation.

  "And the president's orders?" Lee asked.

  "He is not here. I am, sir, and I think that gives me some authority as the civilian representative to order you to do so."

  Lee forced a smile.

  "To take the responsibility from my shoulders?" he asked.

  "If you would let me."

  "No, sir, I will not let you take that responsibility before our president. I am commander in the field. I must act at this moment in best accordance with the needs of this army, the main surviving hope of our cause."

  "Washington faced worse after Brandywine and Germantown," Judah said.

  Lee smiled but shook his head.

  "He was not facing what I now face."

  He sighed and lowered his head.

  "Those wounded capable of being moved, with what transport we have left, to be loaded up tonight. Take only those men with good prospects of healing, of returning to the fight. All others to be left behind."

  The men around the table stirred. "Walter, we will leave a note for General Grant asking for his charity to our men. I am sure he will comply." "Yes, sir."

  "General Longstreet. Can you hold this position through tomorrow?" "Sir?"

  "I want Grant to think we are still in position, considering a resumption of the fight. Meanwhile I will take what is left of Hood's and Beauregard's commands and head south, down toward Hauling Ferry, along with our pontoon train."

  "Sir, my scouts reported yesterday, and again today, that the Yankees have heavily fortified that crossing."

  "We will move with speed. If God is willing, we will launch a surprise attack at dusk and overrun that position. They are, after all, garrison troops. Once the ferry is taken, the pontoon will be laid during the night, I will secure the position, and then, General Longstreet, you will withdraw down to it."

  "Yes, sir, I think that is possible."

  "Gentlemen," Lee sighed, "if we are finished as an offensive force, so is Grant. We return to Virginia and the war will continue. Perhaps what we've achieved here will be sufficient to overturn the Lincoln administration and victory can yet be ours."

  He stood up, the gesture an indication of dismissal, and walked out from under the awning.

  The rain was coming down steadily, not hard, just a constant drizzle. Through the gloom and smoke that still clung to the fields, he could see on the far side of the river hundreds of lanterns, bouncing about like fireflies, details of men looking for lost comrades, bringing in the wounded. All was silent except for distant cries of pain, prayers, pleas for help.

  He lowered his head.

  "My fault, it's all my fault now," he said.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The War Office Washington, D.C.

  August 29, 1863 4:00 A.M.

  ‘The line is still down," Elihu Washburne announced, standing in the doorway of his office where Lincoln had spent the night, anxiously pacing back and forth. There was no need during the late morning and early afternoon of yesterday to be told there was a battle on. The rumble had been steady from the northwest until the rain finally came, buffering the sound.

  And then the telegraph-line had gone dead. Rumor of that had spread through the city within minutes, anxious crowds gathering again around th
e White House, the War Department, and the Treasury Office, which was the hub for all the telegraph lines.

  Lincoln had stayed in the War Office, not wishing to confront the crowds out in the street.

  His pessimism had taken hold during the night. The line had gone down shortly before two in the afternoon. If it was only a temporary break, it should have been up again within minutes. The long hours of silence now told him but one thing. Grant had lost Frederick and was in retreat. The silence could only mean that.

  What do I tell the nation now? He wondered. Be disciplined and wait for the facts, he counseled himself.

  Dawn

  Gen. Ulysses S. Grant stood silently, then stretched and looked out over,the plains surrounding Frederick, Maryland.

  He had not slept at all. The migraine, the sounds coming from every house in the town and from the surrounding fields, the horrid memory of the Confederate major, head blown off, connecting to the nightmares that still haunted him of a comrade dead in Mexico.

  Phil Sheridan wearily came to his side, emerging from the gloom, the smoke, the fog wrapping the field, rising up from the Monocacy and the rain that had fallen throughout the night.

  The battle fury was out of Phil; exhaustion was etched in his face and in the way he walked, shock overtaking him as well.

  "It's a nightmare down there," Phil said softly, nodding a thanks as Ely handed him a cup of coffee, which he took in both hands. They trembled as he raised it to his lips.

  "How could he do it?" Phil asked.

  "Who?"

  "Lee. My God, sir, he drove his men in relentlessly. It was madness, absolute madness."

  "He had this one final chance," Grant said, "and felt he could grab it. If the shoe was on the other foot, we might have done the same."

  "I've never seen anything like it before."

  "We don't end this now, we might see it again," Grant replied. "It's finished this week or they could regroup across the Potomac and hang on for years."

  Phil, still holding his coffee with trembling hands, looked over at Grant.

  "I want pressure put on him."

  "With what, sir? My corps is gone, McPherson's, Ord's. Sir, I never thought I'd admit something like this, but the army is fought out."

  "I'm not talking a full-scale attack," Grant replied. "Even if I wanted to, the men are finished, at least for today. But we still must find a way to keep pressure on Lee, no matter what."

  He looked away from Phil.

  In one sense Phil was right. The Army of the Susquehanna was indeed fought out. Three out of the four corps that had marched with him only days ago were hollow, burned-out wrecks. McPherson's had taken the worst of it. Down to less than fifty percent after the first day, more than half of those surviving becoming casualties in repulsing Lee's final charge.

  Yet, was it not at least as bad or even worse on the other side of Monocacy Creek this morning? Ord in his sacrifice had all but destroyed Early and part of another division. Phil's stand in what all now called the Hornets Nest had shattered Robertson, one of Lee's elite divisions, and savaged parts of two other divisions. Of the three divisions Lee had launched in the charge against Frederick, at least half of those men still littered the fields.

  Grant had gone back into the town shortly before dawn. The grisly task of dragging out the Confederate dead was still going on. Fourth Street, for two blocks, was unlike anything he had ever seen, and he prayed he would never see the like again.

  Every house in the town was a hospital or a morgue. Several hundred of his men, and all the available civilians, were already at work at the edge of town, digging mass graves.

  In one frightful case, a woman had discovered her own out in the street, her husband and son, both with a Confederate regiment. She dragged them into her house and was found a half hour later in her bedroom, having hanged herself.

  An argument had ensued when the men who discovered her and found her suicide note had gently removed her body, found the bodies of her husband and son in the parlor, and carried them out to be buried together. A town minister presiding over the burials refused to bury her in what he said was consecrated ground. One of the soldiers leveled a revolver on him, and the service continued.

  It was the talk of the men this morning. Strange how one such tragedy became a metaphor for all the madness and tragedies. A delegation of citizens had sought Grant out, demanding that the soldier be found and arrested for having threatened a man of the cloth. He said he would. He watched them leave, and did nothing. The soldier who drew the revolver was right; she was a casualty of this war the same as her husband and son.

  He had received word Ord was a prisoner; more than half of his division and brigade commanders were dead or wounded, but this army still had to fight. That had always been the mistake of the Army of the Potomac in the past. The Army of the Potomac had fought battles but had never been able to sustain a campaign. A battle can go on for a few very hard, bitter days, but then it dies out from sheer exhaustion. A campaign is not just one day, or two, or three ... a campaign is a continuum until either one side or the other can no longer stand up... and he still had enough men standing to press the issue. Battles had proven they were indecisive and could not end the war. But a campaign pressed home with sufficient resolve just might get the job done and end the killing once and for all.

  Phil finished his cup of coffee, and an enlisted man came up, offering him a plate with some fried salt pork. Phil paled and shook his head.

  "I need you to keep the pressure on Lee," Grant said again.

  "I realize that, sir," Phil finally replied. "I can still muster maybe three thousand out of the Ninth Corps."

  "What's left of Ord's is in your hands as well," Grant said. "Yes, sir."

  Grant had essentially promoted him again at this moment, but Phil showed no reaction.

  "Hunt is resupplying the guns he has left; they will resume their old position and bombard the line. If an opening develops, we push it. We also captured ten of their guns, Napoleons. Hunt is incorporating them into his command. Call on him if you need close-in support."

  Phil said nothing, finally put his cup down, and saluted. "I better get back to the men I have left," he said and walked off. "Sir?" It was Ely. "Yes?"

  "Sir, I have some returns," he said quietly. He held up a sheaf of papers in his hand. "Just tell me," Grant said.

  "Sir, we might have upward of twenty-five thousand casualties for the last three days."

  "What I figured," Grant replied, looking over at Ely.

  The men of his staff were all silent. Nearly half their own men had fallen in the melee yesterday; all were in shock at the horrific losses. He wondered at this moment whether Ely, in presenting the returns, was offering a suggestion, that it was time to break off the fight.

  Grant turned and looked at him.

  "How many do you think Lee lost?" he asked.

  "I'd judge as many or more. The Hornets Nest, we might have lost more than them, but it absolutely shattered Robertson's command. It was up here, though, that Lee was really pounded. The estimate is we lost somewhere around three thousand repulsing the attack; estimates are he might have lost eight to ten thousand."

  Grant could not speak.

  He did not want to say more. If he dwelled too long on just how much suffering had been created, and, yes, created by his own hand, he'd break. There was many a bottle to be found in town. It would be easy enough to say no fighting today, to find a bottle, get good and drunk, and try to get some sleep.

  He sighed, pulling his hat brim low against the steady drizzle.

  "Push him," he finally said. "I'm taking over Banks's Corps personally. After Sheridan feels better, I'll cut orders for him to consolidate his command with that of Ord while I incorporate McPherson in with Banks. That should give us two light corps for maneuver. No one is fit to move today, but I want Lee to know we are still here." "Yes, sir," Ely replied quietly.

  "Look, Major Parker," Grant said softly, so quietly
only Ely could hear. "The question now is simply this: Who will decide to quit? I can turn this army around today and retire over the mountains, and every man in it will then believe that we were fought to a standstill and lost.

  "But if I stand this ground, if we continue to stare Lee in the face, if tomorrow we advance, those same men will march believing they have achieved victory. Yes, a victory bought at a terrible cost, but victory nevertheless, and they will march and fight as victors. If we stand and then move forward while Lee is forced to retreat, his men will reach the opposite conclusion, and they will withdraw from Frederick as a defeated force. That, in its simplicity, is often the essence of war. That will set the groundwork for the next step in this campaign."

  Ely said nothing. Grant was slightly embarrassed that he had felt it necessary to explain himself.

  "Go about your duties."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Ely, is the telegraph connection back up?" "No, sir." "Why not?"

  "The telegraph wagon for headquarters was smashed in the fighting. The wire from town to halfway up the pass was cut in hundreds of places. Several hours ago, when I realized how long it would take to get service back up, I did send a courier back with news to Hagerstown."

  "I wish you had done that sooner," Grant said, and there was a slight note of chastisement in his voice. "The president must be worried sick by now. Besides, our other commands must have clear news of what happened here."

  "Sorry, sir," Ely replied. "It's just that with all that had to be done, I let it slip. I'm sorry."

  "Too late now. How long for another telegraph wagon to get up?"

  "It should be here by late morning. Ten miles of wire are to be brought up." "Thank you, Ely." "Sir."

  He stood silent, hands in pocket, and wondered what was being said in Washington now. Was Sykes continuing to advance, or had something gone wrong there? Were the fortifications at the fords strong enough to hold if Lee should turn that way? As he looked across the rain-soaked battlefield, he felt that never in his life had he been so lonely as now.

  9:00 A.M.

  General Lee rode across the field parallel to the road down to Hauling Ferry. It had been a hard choice, one he had agonized over ever since rising shortly after midnight.