Grant Comes East - Civil War 02

by Newt Gingrich; William Forstchen

  "Battalions! Halt!"

  The cry went down the length of the front Kemper's Brigade to the left flank continued on for another twenty yards or so before they finally came to a stop. Across the gentle, open swale, the Yankee division was coming to a halt as well, range roughly a hundred and fifty yards.

  On both sides across that open pasture, all could see what was about to happen. A loud murmuring rose up, some cursing, a few laughing, many praying. Lo, trying to maintain some dignity, moved back into the ranks, even as he shouted for the brigade to take aim.

  A metallic ringing echoed, the slapping of the brass fittings on rifle slings as weapons were taken from shoulders, held high, then lowered into firing position. The clicking of thousands of hammers as the .58-caliber Springfields and Enfields were cocked.

  From across the field, the Union troops were enacting the same ritual, gun barrels flashing in the sunlight.

  A long, drawn-out pause, which was only a few seconds but to all seemed an eternity, some rifle barrels held stock-still, men planting their feet firmly, drawing careful aim, second rank leaning forward, poising their weapons between the left and right shoulders of the men in front of them in the first rank.

  "Fire!"

  The thundering, tearing volley raced across the front line, thousands of rifles igniting, a blinding sheet of smoke boiling out thousands of one-ounce bullets shrieking downrange at nine hundred feet per second, and almost at the same instant the Union volley swept in, the air buzzing with bullets, a sharp eye able to pick out piercing eddies in the smoke, marking the passage of an invisible round.

  Scores of men dropped, some collapsing soundlessly; others picked up and knocked into the second rank, some screaming, cursing as they doubled over or, dropping their rifles, grabbed at a broken arm, or a thigh now gushing blood from a slashed artery.

  "Reload!"

  These were veterans, they had done this ritual before; they pulled open cartridge box flaps, drew paper cartridges even as they let their rifle butts drop to the ground. Tear cartridge with teeth, pour powder, push bullet into muzzle, draw ramrod. Thousands of arms were now reaching up, pushing rounds down, some resetting ramrods in the rifle stock, others slamming them into the ground to stand now like iron stakes. Raise rifle, half cock, pull out percussion cap, set cap, bring weapon to the shoulder, signaling they were ready.

  "Volley fire, present!"

  Again thousands of rifles were poised, another thundering crash. The Yankees, several seconds slower, volleyed in return, more men dropping, though not as many as before, both sides masked by smoke, the flashing of pinpoint lights in the yellow battle fog the only indicator that their opponents were still there.

  Yet another volley and a volley in return.

  "Independent fire at will!" The cry raced up and down the line.

  Within a minute it was a continual roar of musketry, the faster loading three or more times a minute, the slower at two rounds a minute, some now fumbling, forgetting to prime with a percussion cap, others pushing the bullet down before pouring in the powder.

  Men dropped, the file closer's cry a continual chant— "Close on the center, close on the center!"—while officers screamed for them to keep pouring it in. The continual roar was deafening, artillery from both sides throwing in both shell and solid shot, men screaming, crying, cursing, praying, shouting incoherently as the battle frenzy seized them. Lines might surge forward a dozen feet as if a spontaneous charge was about to be unleashed, then be swept back, as if an invisible wall of death awaited any man who stepped one foot farther.

  No one could see, all were now firing blindly; the experienced, those with a cold logic still in their mind, took then-time, aiming low, searching for a flash of an enemy gun muzzle in the smoke, then swinging to aim at it Here and there the smoke would part enough to show a flag on the other side of the field, and then a storm of shot would rake into it the banner dropping, .coming back up, going down again, the horror of this hitting on both sides, so that around each regimental color guard a dozen or more men would be sprawled out dead or writhing in agony.

  Clips of meadow grass seemed to leap into the air as bullets cut in low, the grass leaping up as if an angry bee were slashing through the stalks at blinding speed. An artillery shell, winging in low as well, would plow up a terrifying furrow of grass and dirt, then plow into a volley line, bowling men over.

  Men's eyes stung from the blinding smoke, faces streaked black from the mixture of black powder, sweat and saliva. Uniforms were caked with dirt, powder, sweat, blood.

  Lo stalked up and down behind his regiments, saying nothing, watching as the volley lines gradually contracted on the center, the fallen dropping almost in an orderly row, wounded streaming back to the rear. Twenty or more rounds per man had been fired, and still there was no slackening of fire from the other side. It was impossible to see; all was blinded by smoke, the only indicator of the enemy presence the continual buzz of bullets slashing overhead, the cries of his own men being hit the dim pinpoints of light from the other side of the pasture.

  He heard a shouted command to the rear, looked back, and saw Garnett's brigade, which had been advancing behind him, filing off to the left on the double, moving to extend the line, whether to flank or to prevent being flanked he could not tell. He caught a glimpse of Pickett galloping past

  It had been going on for at least fifteen minutes now, a stand-up, knock-down brawl. He had heard the orders, to engage after they crossed the Gunpowder River, hold briefly, then start to fall back, luring them in. Shouldn't they start?

  "General Pickett!" he shouted, trying to be heard above the thunder of battle, but George rode on, standing in his stirrups, eyes afire with that strange light of battle.

  The rate of fire from his own line was slackening, not through lack of will, but after such sustained fire guns were fouling, barrels so caked with the residue of black powder that men were grunting as they pushed down on their ramrods. Some had stopped shooting, were pouring precious water from canteens down the barrels, their guns so hot that steam would come bubbling out as they then hurriedly ran a swab down the bore, filthy black water cascading out of the barrel. Inverting the gun would make the gluey mess dribble out—then another swab to wipe it dry, pour in another round, and resume firing.

  And still the enemy fire slashed in.

  August 19,1863 2:45 P.M.

  Birney stalked the firing line, a Pennsylvania regiment in front of him standing solid, musket fire flashing up and down the line. To his right he could see another rebel brigade swinging into battle front, extending the line. Already his own Second Division was racing behind the volley line on the double, men panting and staggering in the heat lead regiments shaking out from column into battle front, rifles held high as they formed. A roaring volley erupted: Each regiment fired as it came into place. "Birney!"

  It was Dan Sickles, riding up on his black charger, staff trailing behind, the flag of the commander of the Army of the Potomac held high. He pushed his way through the column of the Second Division, the men cheering him as they raced by, Sickles standing in his stirrups, hat off.

  "Give it to 'em! Remember Union Mills and give it to 'em!" Sickles roared.

  He came up to Birney, grinning.

  "How is it here?" Sickles shouted.

  "Damn hot, sir. That's a full division across this pasture."

  "Can see that, Birney. Blue flags, looks like Virginians; it has to be Pickett He's left Baltimore wide-open, the damn fool."

  "Did you expect Pickett this far north?"

  "Of course," he lied. "That madman can't miss a fight."

  He stood back up, raising his field glasses, but the smoke was hanging thick in the humid, windless air, a smothering, choking blanket filled with the stench of rotten eggs, strangely, a smell Dan reveled in.

  If the Virginian was going to stand and fight, why not in the fortifications, why out here, a dozen miles north of town? Even Pickett would not be so foolish as to pit his lone
division against three entire corps. It could only mean that Lee was coming up. But how fast? When would he gain the field? Surely not by this afternoon, unless he had been willing to push his army forty miles in this grueling heat

  He smiled. If so, let him; his men will be exhausted and then we'll make it a stand-up fight.

  "I'm putting the entire Third Corps in here," Sickles announced.

  Birney nodded his head in agreement instinctively dodging as a rifle ball hummed by so close that he could feel the wind of it on his cheek. Dan laughed.

  "If it's got your name on it, Birney, it's got your name, no sense in dodging."

  Grinning, he rode off.

  Five Miles South of Gunpowder River, Maryland

  August 19,1863 3:00 P.M.

  Longstreet could clearly hear the rumble of battle in the distance. Coming up over a low rise he could see the cloud of smoke on the horizon billowing up, tiny puffs of white erupting in the air from shell bursts. A courier had just come in from Stuart, who had shifted to the left, reporting that the Union Fifth Corps was pressing forward on the road from Bel Air, approaching the upper end of the Gunpowder River Valley. Stuart had committed all his reserves, and the fight was beginning to spread.

  Now was the moment of choice—push his lead division, McLaws's, up to Stuart or over to Pickett. Pickett had five full brigades now, the heaviest division in the army. Capable, for a time, of standing up to a Union corps. No, McLaws would extend the fight to the left and hold the Union Fifth Corps in place till the rest of the army came up. It would be a bloody, uneven match for the next three to four hours, until first Hood and then Beauregard arrived. A courier had just come up from Baltimore; the army was moving hard, but the rate of march was slowing in this killing heat, and stragglers were now falling out by the thousands. Pickett should be giving ground now, slowly falling back onto Hood.

  Grim as it was, hard as the casualties would be, it would suck Sickles in, give him more confidence, play to his arrogance.

  He passed the orders for McLaws to move forward to the left and prepare for battle.

  Gunpowder River, Maryland

  August 19,1863 3:15 P.M.

  Though only a colonel in the presence of a major general, Ely Parker found it nearly impossible to conceal his rage. He knew without doubt that his so-called guides had been leading him on a wild-goose chase throughout the morning and into the early afternoon as they weaved back and forth on the two main roads leading south from the river crossing. Over the last hour the thunder of battle had continued to swell and finally, ignoring the shouts and threats of the staff sent to fetch him along, he had ridden off, heading for the center of the battle, knowing that the man he sought would be there.

  A mile back from the battle line he rode past dense columns of troops, swinging out from the road, tramping cross-country on the double, heading down across a shallow ravine to ford a stream and then back up the opposite slope. Seeing one of their command flags, he recognized it as the Second Division of Third Corps and fell in with them, riding as fast as his exhausted mount would carry him. Coming up over the crest he reined in for a moment Several hundred yards to his front a long volley line was dimly visible in the smoke, blazing away, wounded by the hundreds limping back, ambulances already up, stretcher-bearers at work, loading the men in.

  He had to admit it was a magnificent sight. The volley line seemed solid, no faltering in their work, flags waving back and forth. Puffs of dirt kicked up around him as spent rounds smacked into the ground and ricocheted off, his horse dancing nervously as one nicked its leg.

  He pushed on, carefully watching the line, looking behind it and then he spotted the flag of the army commander. Spurring his mount for one last effort before his quarry rode off, Ely Parker of General Grant's staff galloped up and reined in hard. Sickles was surrounded by staff, giving orders, pointing to various details of the fight, one of his men holding up a rough sketch map that Sickles was examining. Without observing protocol, Ely pushed his way in.

  "General Sickles, I am Colonel Parker, adjutant to General Grant."

  Sickles looked over at him and actually smiled.

  "In a moment, Colonel, I am busy now."

  "Sir, I have been led back and forth by your staff to no avail for the last eight hours looking for you. We need to speak now, sir."

  "In a moment," Sickles barked and turned away.

  "Brewster, keep extending your line to the right, push it out; I want to get enfilade into their left. Now move!"

  Brewster saluted and galloped off, and Dan turned to yet another officer.

  "Get back to Warren, tell him to push his first division up at the double to reinforce Birney. Those men have fired sixty or more rounds; their rifles are fouled; they need to be pulled back to clean weapons, reload, get water and a few minutes' rest I want that fresh division on the line within the half hour!"

  More staff galloped off. Dan snapped his fingers to yet another staff officer, who pulled out a flask and handed it over. Dan briefly hesitated, then took a drink, turning slightly as he eyed Parker. He screwed the lid back on the flask and then finally spoke.

  "Well, Colonel?"

  Ely glared at him coldly.

  "Sir, I've been sent by General Grant. I have written orders for you to withdraw back to the north side of the river and then to report to his headquarters in Harrisburg."

  Dan threw back his head and laughed.

  "Should I do this right now, Colonel? This very instant?"

  "Those were the orders I was to convey to you."

  Dan edged his horse closer.

  "Goddamn it, man, do you know how stupid you sound at this moment?"

  "Sir, I am carrying orders from the commander of all Union forces in the field."

  "Again, do you know how stupid, how idiotic you sound?"

  "Are you calling General Grant idiotic, sir?" Ely snarled, features turning dark red.

  "You're an Indian, aren't you?" Dan asked.

  "What the hell does that have to do with it, sir?"

  "I would think that one with your blood would enjoy a good fight. Well, my brave, you got one right here," and Dan pointed to the volley line.

  "I am in the middle of an all-out fight at this moment That's Pickett over there, Stuart a couple of miles to the northwest. We are holding and we are savaging them and we will beat them. Now do you honestly expect me to order a general retreat?"

  Ely said nothing. Tragically, he knew Sickles was right. The fight was on; there was no way to disengage without the threat of a rout. The long hours of delay thrown in his path had given this man enough time to get into a tangle he could not get out of, short of victory.

  "General Sickles, you acted without authority; in fact you acted in direct contradiction to the plan that General Grant had laid out to you at your last conference with him. I know, sir, for I was there, if you will recall."

  To his amazement, Sickles actually shrugged his shoulders and grinned.

  "War changes all plans, Parker. If your Grant was here, he'd agree and order me to push in everything I had. The old plan is off and the Army of the Potomac is back in the fight and we will win this day. Now if you will excuse me, I have a battle to fight"

  "General Sickles, I believe that once this affair is over, you will face an inquiry from General Grant as to the arbitrary and irresponsible nature of your actions."

  "Let him. Just tell him, though, to first check with the secretary of war."

  Stunned, Ely could say nothing.

  "Now stay out of my way, Chief Parker. Though if you want to fight, be my guest If you want to see how the Army of the Potomac can win battles when properly led and not held back on a leash, stay and watch."

  Laughing, Dan spurred his mount and rode off. Ely remained behind, oblivious to the constant whine of bullets passing overhead. There was nothing he could do now to stop this, and considering the respective skills of Lee and Sickles, he feared what was to come.

  Chapter Nineteen
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  Battle of Gunpowder River, Maryland

  August 19,1863 4:30 P.M.

  Voice long since gone, Lo Armistead staggered up and down the line, limping slightly from the rifle ball or shell fragment that had creased his left leg just above the knee.

  His brigade, his precious brigade, was bleeding out. A half hour ago he had committed his two reserve regiments, pushing them into the volley line, pulling his already committed regiments back one at a time to give the men ten minutes to clean their rifles, replenish ammunition, gulp down some water ..and still it continued, the most sustained fire-fight he had seen across two years of war.

  The smoke was a dark blanket hovering over the battlefield. The air was so thick from the humid heat combined with the smoke of battle that he was beginning to lose as many men from physical collapse as from enemy fire. Few were now standing; most of the men were hunkered down, kneeling, lying; some had stopped shooting and, with bayonets, were frantically digging in. The dead lay in almost orderly rows, most where the brigade had first engaged two hours ago; yet more were sprawled out now where the brigade had pulled back a hundred yards, back to a low crest and a fence row.

  No one could see the Yankees in all the smoke, though they were still out there, the incoming rounds evidence enough of their presence. All was fire, smoke, screaming men, the maddening buzz of bullets sweeping past, the sickening thunk when one hit a man. "General Armistead!"

  He looked up and to his amazement saw Pickett, still mounted, though his horse was bleeding from several wounds, the general nursing an arm in a sling. Lo wearily saluted, barely able to focus.

  "You must hold this center, sir," Pickett shouted, his voice breaking, carrying a hysterical edge.

  "Sir! What about our orders?" Lo cried.

  "What orders?"

  Lo stepped closer to Pickett's side.