By then it was too late. The New York men rode through them, hacking and stabbing at the blue-coated gunners who tried to fight them off with rammers and short swords. They discovered that trying to take guns away from the Royal Artillery was not a task for the faint of heart. The gunners had been trained to go after horses' legs with their thick, short swords, and horse after horse went down as the melee swirled around the guns and limbers. Heraus's men were switching to their Colt revolvers, deadly at such close range, dropping the gunners who clustered around their guns.
In the middle of this chaos, a Royal Artillery officer stood his ground, coolly picking off one cavalryman after another with his revolver. He turned, aimed at Heraus, and fired. The colonel felt the blow in his shoulder, and his bloody saber dropped from his hands. The officer looked at him and aimed once more. Heraus could only stare. Then a horseman rode by, and his glinting saber cut the officer from neck to collarbone in a flash. In ten minutes, it was all over. All the gunners were dead, wounded, prisoner, or fleeing across pasture and field.15
THE LONG BRIDGE, WASHINGTON, D.C., 11:30 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863
"Mr. President, for the last time, I cannot fight this action and look out for you at the same time. If I must, sir, I will tie you up like a Christmas turkey and have you bodily carried away."
"All right, General Sharpe," Lincoln said, enjoying the picture of the chief executive in that state. "I will not add to your burdens. I will wait in the hotel over there. The one with all the holes in the side. Maybe the bar is open."
"And you," Sharpe said, turning to the guard detail, "Stay as close as ticks." His glare got them scurrying across the street, urging the bemused president along. There was a method to Lincoln's agreeableness. When he bent his head to enter the upstairs bedroom, he said, "Hello, boys, don't let me bother you," to the coffee mill gun crew. They rushed to upright a chair for him and dragged the bodies of the dead cavalrymen out into the hallway. Someone showed up from the kitchen with coffee. Lincoln pulled the chair up to the hole in the wall, as good a view of the dense Confederate column coming over the bridge as anyone had that day. He passed the coffeepot to the men on the gun, who gulped it down before passing it back to him.
He could clearly see the Confederate officer at the very head of the column on a black horse waving his sword. It would only be minutes now.
CLAVERACK, NEW YORK, 11:35 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863
The drizzle stopped, and the wind picked up, blowing the smoke off the field. Now with clear targets again, the artillery on both sides began throwing metal across the field. As proficient as the American gunners were, the British Armstrongs that still worked were outshooting them in both speed and accuracy. The older Canadian muzzle-loaders were neither, but they were reliable and added to the hail of shot and shell landing amid the Americans. The Imperial batteries concentrated their fire first on the American batteries, and when they had silenced or driven off enough, turned their attention to the infantry. The American infantry had held their own against their British and Canadian cousins, but the artillery was like hammers that smashed great holes in their ranks.
Williams twelve regiments averaged barely three hundred and seventy men apiece, smaller than even the Canadian battalions. It did not take a lot to deplete one of these units when the fighting was hard, and it was hard all up and down the line. Lines of bodies marked the firing lines of both sides across the beaten zone, but neither side had been able to build up enough infantry firepower to beat down the other anywhere along the line.
Hooker was everywhere on the field that day, throwing his small reserves anywhere the line needed to be strengthened. Gnawing on him was the question, "Where was Meagher?" He had had no word of him. Only the smoke from the burning town to the north gave even a hint. If the British had checked him there, it would have been Chancellorsville all over again. All he could do was fight the fight he was in. So he kept the regiments of Geary's remaining small brigade ready, commanded by Col. George A. Cobham, Jr., to relieve any hard-hit unit. One such was the 13th New Jersey, so badly cut up by the enemy's guns and those green-clad devils in front of them that it was commanded by the only remaining officer on his feet, 1st Lt. Franklin Murphy, who clutched his left arm to his breast, nursing a nasty wound to the forearm.16
At this moment, chance threw its sword on the scales. Hooker sent two messengers galloping away with instructions: one for the 13th New Jersey to be relieved, the other for Cobham's 29th Pennsylvania to move right into place. The first was quicker than the second, and Murphy promptly pulled his men out without thought of whether their replacement was at hand. From the other side, it was as if a gap miraculously had appeared in the enemy line. Only seconds passed before the command was given, "The Prince of Wales Regiment will advance!" Winnowed almost as badly as the New Jersey regiment opposite, the premier battalion of the Canadian militia stepped over the bodies of their mates and across the beaten zone, bayonets leveled. Their colonel took the lead, shouting, "Come on, the Prince of Wales!" He broke into a run, his cap on his sword point, and the battalion followed in a scarlet flood. They jumped over the bodies of the New Jersey men who lay in the battle line where they had fallen.
Then the Canadians turned on the next American regiment in line and wrapped around its rear. The 97th Indiana just crumbled. Engaged in their front and fired on upon from the rear, many surrendered or sim ply fled. When the Canadians charged, the neighboring Rifles advanced as well. They beat back the opposing 2nd Massachusetts and 3rd Wisconsin. Soon the entire British line was attacking just as the American line had begun to come apart.
The sight of the advance amid American disarray sent a wave of elation through Paulet's command group. This was the moment he had been waiting for. He turned to one of his aides. "Captain Brown, please inform Sir James that he may send in the Grenadier Guards." Capt. Geoffrey Brown saluted with an elegance and style unusual in a big man. "Brown," Paulet added, "I wouldn't blame you if you went in with the Preston and his Dandies. The opportunity of a lifetime, eh?" Brown spurred his horse to where the Guards were waiting as another aide rode off to the artillery to concentrate on the Americans remaining in the center. Paulet liked "young Geoff," as he called him. The man had a saucy way and added a certain style to Paulet's staff. Paulet said to no one in particular as Brown rode off, "Bears an uncanny resemblance to Harry Flashman. A bold lot these Flashmans. Lucky, too."17
Hooker was finding being a corps commander harder than he remembered. And where the hell was Meagher? Williams's division was falling back in disorder with the enemy in close pursuit. Its center was yawning open, filling with men in rifle green and scarlet. Visions of Chancellorsville and Jackson's crushing blows loomed up before him. "Not again, not again," he said under his breath. "No, by God, not again!" Turning to an aide, he said, "Tell Kilpatrick to flank them and come in from the rear. I need his cavalry to take pressure off the center. Be quick, man. Ride!" The young lieutenant dashed off.
Hooker rode up to the three Pennsylvania regiments of Cobham's brigade, his last reserve on the field. They were small regiments by this stage of the war, barely one thousand men altogether. They had all served with Hooker at Chancellorsville; there was many an unforgiving opinion in their ranks that had come grudgingly around as he led them north. He stood up in his stirrups and took off his wide-brimmed black hat so that his blond hair was plain for all to see. "Pennsylvania, it is up to you! Forward!" The brigade stepped off with Hooker trotting to the front with Cobham beside him. They were advancing through the path of flight of the breaking regiments to their front. Men raced past in groups or individually. Many a man clutched a bleeding arm or shoulder or limped on a shot leg; many were helping the wounded off the field. A remnant, though - the steel core of broken regiments - retired backward, their faces to the enemy, stopping to fire and then back again to reload and fire once more.
The last of these men stopped just in front of Hooker to turn once more and shake his fist at the enemy. The ranks of the P
ennsylvania men pushed past him and into the bullets of the Rifles. Here and there men pitched forward or tumbled backward. Shells burst among them, but they kept going, stopping only by regiments to fire and then start forward again. Men in rifle green now began to fall, adding to the Rifles' butcher's bill. They stood their ground and returned a steady and accurate fire. It was a rare man among the Rifles who could miss a mark at that range. The Peacemakers of the 16th Foot came up to join their firing line. Now it would be, in the Duke of Wellington's words, "a hard pounding, and we shall see who can pound the hardest." But the attack of Cobham's Pennsylvanians bought enough time for the regiments that had fallen back to reorder themselves and return to the fight, especially the New York men of the 107th and 150th Regiments.
Kilpatrick needed no time to reflect on Hooker's orders. He had been itching to get back into the fight ever since Hooker had arrived with XII Corps and ordered his division into reserve. He had already scouted the enemy flank and practically drooled at the opportunity of falling on it and driving through their guns and trains. The only thing he had to worry about was the Canadian cavalry, as few as they were, strung out on the flank, and a few train guards. They may have been pretty in their blue with yellow facings and brown hushys, but under Denison's influence they knew how to patrol an open flank. Beyond them, Denison's Royal Guides had been lurking behind Hooker's army. It was a pair of them that brought the first word of Kilpatrick's move. Before Kilpatrick got close enough to put his brigades on line, the Canadian scouts had brought the word of his advance.
Their ten troops had only been formed into squadrons for the invasion, and they had had barely two weeks to get used to each other, but they formed up well enough. Their two small squadrons did not even have four hundred men left after Custer had so roughly handled them earlier that morning, but they were still game. There was really not much else they could do except flee, but that was not much on the mind of Lieutenant Colonel Denison, who was now in command. His scouts after had ridden up to Paulet's command group and made their report. Paulet chose not to comment on the fact that he had ordered Denison to pull his men into reserve. He seemed not to have noticed that the Royal Guides who formed his escort had shrunk to a dozen men. He simply acknowledged his mistake by asking Denison to take charge of the cavalry and hold up the Americans as long as he could. For a man who believed so much in the role of cavalry in the dismounted skirmishing role, it was a superb irony, he told himself, to be leading a good old-fashioned stirrupto-stirrup affair against odds that made the Charge of the Light Brigade look like fair play.18
Paulet did more than send Denison off to lead a forlorn hope. He ordered two batteries to turn about and cover the rear and sent world to the 2nd Montreal Brigade to detach its reserve, the 4th Battalion, Chasseurs Canadien, to face about. To Sir James Lindsay, he sent the order to turn the Grenadier Guards about as well. The aides had barely galloped off when a dark tide appeared on the flank-twenty-five hundred cavalrymen in line of regiments approached, their guidons and battle flags whipping behind them as they trotted forward. Paulet now had done everything he could. He could only watch Denison's fine steed burn its way across the field to the Canadian cavalry.
At that moment, Captain Brown rode up, immensely relieved at his good luck that the Dandies had been recalled from their attack. But it was a case of "from the frying pan into the fire," for Paulet noticed him and said, "Brown, ride after Denison and tell him to strike them in the flank." For his part, Brown was not impressed with the order and had begun to turn a light shade of green under his thick sideburns as he saw the mass of American cavalry trotting toward the little Canadian band. Try as he might, no excuse would pop into his head, and he came to the awful conclusion that he might actually have to ride down into that. It only took a long, puzzled look from Paulet for him to make up his mind to actually obey his orders. Hopefully, he thought as he spurred his charger down the hill, something might turn up.
THE LONG BRIDGE, WASHINGTON, D.C., 11:40 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863
Lincoln stared out the jagged hole in the wall, past the defenders, and down the Long Bridge to the column of men rushing across. He had never seen Confederate battle flags so close, except as trophies. But in the hands of their bearers, the effect was entirely different. The Army of Northern Virginia, he had come to believe, was a pure embodiment of American valor in its own way -more the pity, for in this characteristic there was no North or South.
He could make out a man on a black horse at their head. Brave man. Why wasn't Sharpe firing, he wondered. They were halfway across. He found himself holding his breath. He glanced at the men with him. Each was similarly transfixed by the sight. Closer and closer they came, a glittering hedge of bayonets, held at left shoulder arms, and he could see the man and horse more clearly. His magnificent, spirited black seemed to dance as it trotted, the perfect match to the man who rode it. Brave horse, brave man.
Brig. Gen. John B. Gordon did not know he had such an exalted observer. If he had, he would have saluted with his sword, honor to honor. But now he had only time for the barricade visible at the bridge end and the sight of the half-finished Capitol dome on its hill. That dome meant the end of this unending river of blood. He turned back in his saddle and pointed with his sword, "Come on, Georgia! Home is just beyond that dome!" The men had caught the excitement of the moment as well. A roar rose up from the lead regiments.
They had given the command for their own ruin. At that moment, Sharpe shouted, "Fire!" The click-bang, click-bang, click-bang of the turning crank handles melted into a machine staccato as the eleven coffee mill guns poured their fire down the bridge.
CLAVERACK, NEW YORK, 12:05 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863
Wolseley had never believed that the Grenadier Guards could move as fast as Preston led them to throw themselves across the army's rear in a double line. The Chasseurs Canadiens followed to link up on their right. But for all that speed, it was Denison's gallant hand that gave them those extra minutes to get in line. That and the trains.
The sight of the enemy trains, hundreds of wagons strung out in the open along the road to Hudson, was too much for Kilpatrick to resist; he turned Davies's brigade on it. The commissaries, quartermasters, and Canadian train guards never had a chance. Saber and the .44 Colt pistol killed and killed as the cavalrymen hunted amid the wagons and lim hers. Panicked teamsters whipped their horses to escape down the road but were shot or sabered out of their seats as their wagons careened on to crash into each other. Hundreds surrendered or fled down the road toward the bridge over the northern arm of Claverack Creek. A few ran south to run through the silent ranks of the Guards.
Paulet and his officers watched in shock as the cavalry swarmed the trains. Denison's cavalry had been too far away to intervene. But they were close enough for Denison to launch them in the path of Custer's Wolverines, who were coming forward in column of regiments-1st, 6th, and 7th Michigan, and 1st Vermont. It was three to one. From Paulet's staff came murmurs of, "Brave fellows," and "Good luck, Canada," from the British officers. The Canadians could not speak; their hearts were in their mouths.19
As obedient as horses are, they will not run into each other on purpose, but when hundreds of horses attempt to occupy the same space at a gallop, awful things happen.20 Scores of animals, despite their frantic attempts to swerve, collided, throwing their riders into a kicking, flailing equine brawl as the Canadians and the leading 1st Michigan melted into each other. The fighting became hundreds of running duels as man sought out man with saber or pistol. Two such were Denison and Custer. The American, with his flowing blond hair and red bandana, drew the eye. Their sabers locked as they hacked, parried, and thrust at each other. Then the 6th Michigan crashed into the melee. The last two regiments swung wide on either side to come in behind.
Paulet and his staff watched in horror as the trap began to close. No one had paid attention to the lone rider dashing toward the fray, but seconds before the two wings of the American cavalry joined, that rider
sped through the gap. Someone pointed him out by his scarlet jacket. "By God, it's young Geoff!" Paulet shouted. One American had raced ahead to intercept him, but Brown's charger rode him down. Then he disappeared into the swirling melee.
From Paulet's hill, the nickeled helmets of the Royal Guides disappeared from view one by one in the swirling mass of horses. Inside the chaos, the two commanders had been swept away from their duel by tide of the 6th Michigan. Three of the Wolverines closed on Denison. He thrust his saber into one man's throat and hacked the second out of his saddle, but the third drove his saber into Denison's side. He pulled it out to deliver the killing stroke as Denison sagged forward over his horse's neck. But the trooper screamed as his forearms flew off, slashed through by one of the last of the Royal Guides. Now the remaining four circled their wounded chief, fighting off attack after attack, like heroes on the plains of Troy defending a wounded chieftain. And one by one, they fell around him .21
From a distance, none of this was apparent. All eyes were on Brown's scarlet figure darting through the dark blue mass of the American cavalry. They were too far away to see that he artfully dodged through the enemy, who was startled to see a lone Englishman in their midst. It was a supreme demonstration of horsemanship that he managed to ride through so many of the enemy without coming within saber's length of a single one. Of course, he did not hear the cheering from Paulet and his staff, especially loud when he passed through the last of the Americans and galloped off into the woods. Thus, a new legend of the British Army was horn-"The Ride of the Gallant Geoff," a poem to he written by Alfred Lord Tennyson himself and memorized by generations of British schoolboys.22
What Paulet could not see was the violent argument Davies and Custer were now having with Kilpatrick. They were opposed to continuing the attack on horseback against unbroken infantry. Kilpatrick finally ordered them back to their commands. After a few minutes, the mass of twenty-five hundred cavalry began to move forward at a trot. The artillery opened the show by sending shell to burst into them, but they might as well have been trying to stop a stampede. The cavalry picked up speed, the sound of their approach rising like the roar of an oncoming flood. In their path, the Grenadier Guards stood stock still, an example the Chasseurs did not quite attain.
A Rainbow of Blood: The Union in Peril an Alternate History Page 28
