They had filed west and north throughout the previous day, following back tracks and farm lanes, a route that Lee and Jed Hotchkiss had ridden over the week before, while contemplating what to do if Sickles should indeed jump first.
Though Lee loathed analogies with Napoleon, especially when applied to himself and his army, he had to admit it was indeed something like Austerlitz. He had picked this ground long before the battle and analyzed it. He had conceded what Sickles would perceive to be the good ground, on the banks of the Gunpowder River down close to the Chesapeake. If he had fought him there, he would have held the good ground, to be certain, but it would have been a bloody, senseless fight, with severe casualties and little to show once Sickles was beaten and had retreated. Granted, he had lost five times the number he had wished for yesterday, but it had indeed lured Sickles across that stream.
And now Sickles was pushing south. A courier had just come in reporting that the Union commander had increased the pace of his advance, was pressing into the rear of Hood's and Longstreet's supposed retreat. In another two miles he would finally run up against what the rebel forces were already calling "the line," a hundred and thirty-five guns concealed behind a reverse slope.
Stuart was shadowing the flank, keeping any probing eyes back. All civilians, painful as it might be, had been rousted out, ordered, "for their own welfare," to abandon their homes and retreat toward Baltimore. In Virginia he would not have worried, but here in Maryland, one or two civilians bearing tidings of a rebel column having disappeared late the day before, marching to the northwest, might have been warning enough to stop Sickles.
Sickles was playing his hand as Lee thought he would. The tantalizing chance to finally catch the Army of Northern Virginia on the march would be too much for Wm to not grab for.
All they needed to do now was to wait for the sound of the guns.
August 20,1863 9:00 am
‘Sir, I think we got a problem ahead!" Dan looked over at the courier riding in, a cavalryman, John Buford's old division. "What is it?"
"Sir, we're moving ahead of the Second Division of the Third Corps, and we seen a hell of a lot of guns." "What kind of guns?"
"Artillery, sir, rows of 'em. Maybe twenty or more batteries. One of the boys climbed a church steeple to get a look around and he seen them down in the next valley. I was ordered to come back here and find you."
"Are they moving?"
"No, sir, that's just it. Their gunners are standing ready." "I'm coming."
Following the cavalryman, his staff trailing, they rode across an open pasture. Some stragglers dotted the field, men already dropping out because of the heat and exhaustion. A few wounded in the field, an ambulance up to retrieve them, one of them a rebel officer, sitting on the ground, holding a leg up as a hospital orderly tightened a tourniquet. The man grimaced, saw Dan, and offered a salute, which Dan returned.
"Hot day, General."
'That it is, Captain."
"Gonna get a hell of a lot hotter for you soon, General."
The rebel was grinning now, and Dan rode on.
He came to a split-rail fence, rode parallel to it for fifty yards until he found a place where it had been knocked down, a few more casualties, Union and Confederate together, sitting and lying under the shade of an apple tree, the men who had fought each other only minutes before now talking, a rebel holding a canteen for a young Yankee cavalryman, the boy gut-shot.
He rode up through the orchard, its lower branches picked clean even in the middle of a running fight; soldiers of both sides would forage even if the apples were still green.
More men ahead, a ragged combination of columns and lines, white insignia of the Third Corps, Second Division, on their caps. Few if any still had on field packs or blanket rolls. Many, against usual custom, had their bluejackets off in the heat, but they still carried rifles and cartridge boxes, which was all that mattered to him at this moment.
The column was stalled as he rode past. He caught sight of a regimental commander.
"Why are you stopped?" Dan shouted.
"Sir, we just got word from the skirmish line up front that there's trouble ahead."
"What, damn it?"
"Artillery."
"Then go forward and take it!" Dan shouted.
He pushed ahead of the column. Looking to his left and right he saw where the entire division was stalled, formation ragged, some still in battle line, some in column by company front, flags hanging limp in the still, humid air.
Ahead he could see a heavy skirmish line atop a low crest, each man several feet apart from comrade to left or right, some standing, others crouching. He rode up to them, men looking back as they heard his approach.
"Keep this line moving, goddamn it! We are going to Baltimore by tonight. Keep it moving!"
August 20,1863 9:10 AM.
‘They’ve slowed Sir, Porter Alexander, at General Longstreet's side, pointed to the low crest six hundred yards away. A Yankee skirmish line was atop the crest having appeared only minutes ago, and the sight that greeted them had undoubtedly caused their coming to a halt.
Twenty-six batteries, a hundred and thirty-five guns, nearly all of them pieces captured at Union Mills, were deployed across a front of more than half a mile. Most of the gunners were new to their tasks, men pressed into the artillery from infantry service, each crew having but one or two veterans to try and train and direct the new hands. But the men were eager, like boys with a new toy. Their morale was good, many gladly proclaiming that if they had known how soft life was in the artillery they would have joined years ago. Then again, none of them had yet to endure a close-in fight, known the terror of mechanically loading while infantry took aim from fifty yards away, or the horror of what happened when a twelve-pound solid shot took the wheel off a gun, flying splinters tearing the crew apart.
Longstreet was silent, watching the opposite crest If the skirmishers were this close, it was evident that the advancing army was not far behind. Even now they would most likely be pushing around the flanks of this position. The feigned retreat was almost over.
"Now, Porter, give it to 'em now. Remember, this is a signal as well!"
Porter grinned and stood up in his stirrups, clenched fist held heavenward.
"Battalions, on my command!" The cry raced down the line. "Fire!"
9:11 AM.
Even as Sickles shouted the order for his army to continue the advance, a deep thunder exploded to his front. It started in the middle, several batteries firing simultaneously, and then spread like a string of firecrackers along the entire front, thunderclap building on thunderclap into a continuous roar.
He was a man of courage, and yet instinctively he hunched over when, three seconds later, the blizzard of solid shot and shrapnel swept the crest of the hill. Shells detonated; solid shot skipped and screamed; skirmishers fell flat on their faces, hugging the ground; branches were torn from apple trees, whirling into the air. One of his staff went down, his horse torn nearly in half, screaming horribly as it thrashed about, its legs tangled into its spilled intestines.
The division he had ordered forward was coming up, the men protected by the low rise, but more than one fell from airbursts, from broken branches that drove through the ranks like javelins, thousands of splinters from trees raining down on them.
What is this? he wondered. How? Yet the sight before him, though cloaked with heavy smoke, was clear enough. The bulk of Lee's artillery was deployed here, in the center between the two main roads they were using for their retreat. Was he turning to fight?
The division came up, columns shaking back out into battle lines, men hunching low as they reached the crest and then hesitated, not sure what to do next.
He could not leave this in his center, cutting his advance along the roads. If Lee was retreating, was this a throwaway gesture? Perhaps the guns captured at Union Mills? Or were there infantry in the woods beyond, ready to support?
His own artillery was coming up, but
already he could see they would be outnumbered. It would take time to bring them forward, organize them on the reverse slope, then push them all up at once.
Could he take this directly? He calculated the odds. He would never be so foolish as to send men into a frontal assault against gun's. Though he cared little for Henry Hunt, he thought of him at this moment, wished he were here to offer advice.
Birney was by his side, wide-eyed. The faster of the gunners had reloaded, and he noted that it had taken them time, a minute or more. These were not well-practiced men.
"Birney, take your men forward!" Dan shouted. "But for God's sake, don't get into canister range. Stop before then, get your men firing, and sweep those bastards. If Lee wants to give us back our guns, by God, we'll take 'em!"
The battle line swept forward into the valley.
9:15 A.M.
'Up, men, up!" Beauregard shouted, saber drawn, riding across the front of the columns resting under the shade of the trees.
The unmistakable volley of guns from six miles away had come as a dull continual rumble.
General Lee, who had been anxiously looking at his watch every five minutes, and was on the verge of ordering Beauregard in, signal or not, breathed a sigh of relief. The signal meant that Sickles was fully engaged six miles to the southeast. Beauregard was now to slice directly east, rolling up the valley of the Gunpowder River.
The men, eager to begin, raced forward, following narrow woodsman's trails, a country lane, breaking through woods and briars, advancing on the double, unable to be restrained, and he rode with them. Again the joy of battle was filling his soul.
9:45
’That's it! Keep feeding it in, boys, you're breaking them, you're breaking them!" The volley line of the Second Division, Third Corps, fought like the experienced soldiers they were. They had been at it for over half an hour, advancing under terrifying fire to within two hundred and fifty yards of the rebel artillery, down nearly into the bottom of the swale, and there stopped. They had long since gone to independent fire at will, some standing, others kneeling. Orders were for them to take careful aim, to make every shot count.
And the casualties they were taking in turn were terrifying. These men were not getting hit by .58-caliber mini6 balls; what was coming back was solid shot and shells cut to one-second fuses to burst in front of them. Men were not just killed; they were torn to pieces by the frightful solid shot and jagged pieces of metal bursting over and around them
Still there was no infantry support for the rebel guns; they were out there, in the open, pouring in fire, the guns having recoiled in places more than fifty yards, gunners not bothering to drag them back up. The smoke parted for a moment, and he scanned their line; scores, perhaps hundreds of rebels were down. Several pieces were silent, abandoned, surviving crews doubling up. But still they kept at it, and he would not push his men into the murderous swath of canister that would greet them if they closed to under two hundred yards. Occasionally a rebel gun lofted a charge of canister in, but it had little effect at this range; shot scattered wide, though here and there an unlucky man would be cut down. No, they were saving that deadly dose for a final charge that Sickles was not yet ready to commit.
But his men were suffering terribly, the artillery fire improving at times in accuracy, solid shot striking just in front of a file, bounding up, obliterating two men in a rank and then bounding on up the slope. It was in many ways far more unnerving than facing a volley line, and the strain was showing. His men were now cursing, down on the ground, loading, trying to take aim, firing, then rolling over on their backs to pour another measure of powder down the barrel, not daring to stand up.
He rode along the volley line, shouting encouragement. Screaming for them to pour it in. He knew he should have left this sector by now, to check on the advance to either flank, but his attention was focused here. If they could finally overrun these guns, by God, what a victory that would be. Then he could plunge straight up the center and catch the rest of Lee's army in the rear.
A constant stream of couriers came in, many hunched low, frightened by the bombardment, reporting that the Third Division of the Third, supported by the Sixth Corps, was even now pushing around the flank of the guns. Another report from the Fifth Corps, that they were continuing to drive McLaws two miles to the north, asking if a brigade should be detached to catch the guns on the other flank, a request to which he agreed.
"Pour it in!" he continued to scream. "Damn them to hell, pour it, boys!"
9:50am
Back a quarter mile behind the line, reluctantly following the orders given to him by General Lee, Longstreet watched the struggle down in the valley below. Behind him an entire division was concealed—Dole's men, rested and waiting—but he would not spring them yet. The time was not yet right.
Overhead and around him a continual rain of branches, leaves, bits of bark floated down or whirled past, tens of thousands of minie balls, fired high, plunging into the woods.
"General Longstreet!" It was Venable. "I've just come from General Lee, sir. He wishes to inform you that the advance of Beauregard has begun. Do not engage until it is clearly evident that the Yankees are in retreat"
"Thank you, son. How are you?"
Venable grinned.
"Turning into one hell of a fight, isn't it?"
"And he's taken the bait," Longstreet replied, pointing to the battered line out in the middle of the field. "Hell, I might of taken it as well, the chance to capture so many guns unsupported by infantry. Masterful by General Lee. Now let's hope Beauregard pushes it!"
10:00 AM
‘General Sickles!" Dan looked to his left; a courier, the Maltese Cross of the Fifth Corps on his cap, was riding down the line at a gallop. The courier, a captain, reined in.
"From General Sykes, sir!" He handed over a folded piece of paper.
To the General Commanding
9:25 AM August 20
Sir,
I've observed a large formation of Rebel infantry upon my right, coming out of the woods to my west two miles away. They are formed for battle and advancing on the double towards my rear. Sir, I must stop my advance and turn to face them. I recommend that you come yourself to observe. Flags indicate they are South Carolina, perhaps of Beauregard's corps. Please come at once.
(Signed) Sykes Fifth Corps
Dan crumpled the paper in his hand.
Goddamn! Was he being flanked?
He looked forward. Still no sign of their infantry. Was this the bait of a trap, so many guns that he would of course stop, engage, try to flank, commit his reserves? And now another whole corps appeared on his flank and rear?
He felt a shiver of fear. My God, am I being flanked? Did Lee just trick me, knowing I would pursue what I thought was a retreating army?
"How long ago?" Dan shouted, looking at the captain.
"About a half hour, maybe forty minutes, sir."
"Did you see them?"
"Yes, sir. I was with General Sykes. Division front at least, thousands of them, coming on fast, cavalry skirmishers to their fore."
"Did no one look toward those woods?" Dan asked.
"No, sir, our cavalry patrols were pushed back throughout the night. And, sir, our orders said to follow down the road in pursuit."
"Goddamn you, I know what my orders said!" Dan shouted. "But your flank, man, your flank, didn't anyone look?"
The captain did not reply.
"Birney!"
"Here, sir!"
"Birney, I'm going up to the Fifth Corps. It might be Beauregard on our flank up there. Press the action here in the center. Keep pressing..."
His words were cut off.
The solid shot screamed in, brushing the flank of his horse and then striking his right leg just below the knee. In the split second it took to pass, the twelve-pound ball, moving at just under seven hundred feet a second, struck with frightful energy. It tore the bone of his lower leg out of the joint of his knee, severing ligaments, arteries,
tearing cartilage, whipping the lower leg back at a ninety-degree angle, popping it out of the stirrup.
The angle of the shot carried the ball into the right rear quarter of his horse, shattering its hip, exploding out the back of the tortured animal in a spray of commingled blood, muscle, and bone both from horse and rider.
He gasped in surprise. There was no pain, just a terrible shock. All feeling, sound, sensation, thought were blanked out for a second. Instinct drove him to pull the reins of his mount, which was rearing back and then beginning to collapse onto its right side.
Though he did not see it, the courier from Sykes, who had actually felt the brush of the ball, was already leaning out, grabbing the horse's reins. Birney, on the other side, did the same, his shoulder getting dislocated as the horse pitched and fought
More men came up, struggling to keep the horse upright General Sickles, blood now draining from his face, numb, remained stock-still, frozen in part by fear, in part by the realization that his body would not react that he could not control the struggling animal beneath him.
Hands reached up, grabbing him on the left side.
"Get him down, gently, get him down!"
He started to collapse, sagging. He thought he should pull his right foot from the stirrup. He actually thought he had done so. Somehow they were dragging him up over the saddle, then lowering him to the ground.
He caught a glimpse of the courier, still holding the reins of his horse with one hand, pistol in the other. The man cocked his pistol. He wanted to shout a protest It was a good horse, a damn good horse, a gift from the governor.
The man pushed the pistol against the ear of the dying animal and fired, the poor thing collapsing in a heap.
He looked around. Men were kneeling by his side, Birney, arm hanging limp, struggling to dismount; a private was gazing down at him, wide-eyed, frightened.
The fear came into him, and like all wounded men he tried to sit up. He still wasn't sure where he was hit.
Grant Comes East - Civil War 02 Page 46
