Grant Comes East - Civil War 02 (54 page)

August
19,
1863 12:30
p.m.

Da
n Sickles raised his field glasses yet again, scanning the opposite bank of the river, the shallow valley dividing the two forces. It was beginning!

It was still dismounted rebel cavalry over there, but reinforced now by a heavy battery, most likely brought up from Baltimore. The boys from his beloved Third Corps were shaking out from marching columns to lines. With the thump of artillery, the distant rattle of musketry and carbine fire, the veterans of the old army knew that the elephant was waiting. They were to see battle again, and here, six weeks after Union Mills, was a chance to restore their pride. Some were nervous, wide-eyed, especially the new ninety-day regiments, but the old hardcore looked ready, and as they reached the crest, swinging from marching formation into battle front, they appraised it professionally, a tough advance, but against dismounted cavalry it might not be so bad, and the ground was shallower than Union Mills.

David Birney, the commander handpicked by him to run the Third Corps, rode up.

"So it's starting, is it?" Birney cried. "Looks that way. Stuart turned about a half hour ago. He chose some good ground."

"Think there's infantry behind him?" "Maybe. The garrison in Baltimore might come up, though I'd have assumed they would have waited in the fortifications. If it's the garrison,
it just might be Pickett; word
is that he was left behind." Sickles pointed to the distant dust on the road heading from Baltimore.

"I'd dearly love to thrash that arrogant bastard," Birney announced.

"Well, David, now is your chance. Force this stream; I don't want to get tangled up here. Send in the First Division."

"What about Sykes and the Fifth Corps to the north?" "They're coming out of Bel Air now, reporting the same thing, intense cavalry skirmishing." Dan shook his head.

"I want Baltimore by dark. Lee must be moving by now. If he gets into that city and the fortifications, it will be hard to drag him out. We'v
e got to be in there by dark."
He did not add that sooner or later Parker would show up with the order of recall, and it was crucial to have Baltimore in his pocket or it would indeed be hard to press on to continue the action.

Birney rode off and within a .couple of minutes bugles sounded, the cry going down the line of the hard-fighting First Division, Third Corps, to prepare for a frontal advance. The fight was definitely on.

Ellicott
City,
Maryland

Headquarters
Army
of
Northern
Virginia

August
19,1863 1:00
p.m.

The h
eat was becoming staggering as General Lee allowed himself a few minutes' break under a grove of pine trees, gladly accepting a glass of lemonade offered up by an elderly woman, the pitcher cold, dripping with moisture.

He felt exhaustion coming on after a sleepless night in the saddle, broken only by a half hour nap in a shaded glen just before dawn. The men of Beauregard's corps were marching past, all chatter having long since ceased, the roadside littered with cast-off debris.

His huge train of artillery was moving at a good pace, the roads well paved, veteran batteries mingled in with newly created units manned mainly by hastily trained infantry. Gun after gun rolled by, the horses lathered in sweat as they strained at the harnesses of Napoleons, three-inch ordnance rifles, ten-pound Parrotts, limber wagons, and forge wagons. Here would be a killing punch, well over two hundred guns, stretching for miles on the road. Across fields and narrow farm lanes to either side of the main road columns of infantry pushed forward, a tidal wave of humanity on the march.

The latest dispatch from Longstreet had just come in. The action was opening up on Gunpowder River, just as he had planned.
If
I
had
been
forced
to
defend
Baltimore,
Sickles might
be
discouraged
from
attacking,
and,
worst
of
all,
circle
to
the
west,
there
to
wait
for
Grant
to
come
down,
pinning the
Army
of
Northern
Virginia
in
the
city.
This
fight
had
to
be fought
north
of
the
city,
while
Sickles
was
alone.

He had authorized his generals to spread the word to the troops, to share with them
, as Napoleon did before Auster
litz, what his plan now was, and that confidence was reflected as they pushed on. He had seen stragglers, most of them humbled, apologetic, asking but a few minutes to catch their breath, more than one of them staggering back up to their feet and falling back in as they saw him ride past

His army continued to press on.

Gunpowder
River,
Maryland

August
19,
1863 1:45
pm.

George Pickett, it was again the dream. His heavy division, reinforced by the two brigades that had missed Union Mills because of being used as garrison troops, swung out into battle line on the double, ignoring the long-range artillery fire bursting in the air, an occasional round plowing into the ranks.

It would be another Taneytown for him, and he gloried in it He understood his orders, to give ground slowly, but first he would at least let his heavy division show its mettle and tear into whatever the Yankees might throw at him; there'd be time enough later to fall back. Sword raised, he shouted for his Virginians to advance.

The
Battle
of
Gunpowder
River,
Maryland

August
19,1863 2:00
p.m.

David B
irney led
the first division of his corps
down into the shallow, open valley, sweeping around mill ponds, men plunging into the cool stream below mill dams and storming up the open slope. Atop the crest, the line of cavalry troopers fired a final volley, dozens of men dropping from the impact The attacking Union division barely wavered. They had taken far worse on many another battlefield.

The charge moved up the slope on the double, artillery fire shrieking overhead as a fourth Union battery deployed on the slope behind them. Stuart's men pulled back fast before the relentless advance of the Union battle line sweeping half a mile of front

August
19,1863

2:10
pm.

Lo
Armistead, sword raised high, led his brigade forward. His regiments held the center of the line, three of them advancing shoulder to shoulder; fifty yards behind were the other two regiments of his brigade, acting as immediate reserve, red St Andrew's crosses held high, the dark blue flags of Virginia beside the scarlet banners. A hundred yards behind them the two reserve brigades of Pickett's division advanced in similar formation.

He turned, walking backward for a moment, the sight sending a chill down his spine. The battle front of the division covered nearly a half-mile front, the lines undulating, breaking up for a moment as the men scrambled over fences, swinging around rough ground, passing a farmhouse and barnyard, pigs and goats scattering as troops knocked down a pen. Long-range shells from the Union batteries fluttered overhead, bursting in the air, plowing up ground, one shell exploding over his own Ninth Virginia. Several men dropped.

It was hot, damnably hot. Sweat poured down his face. He caught glimpses of individuals in the rank, some of the men grinning, their eyes afire with that strange light that imbued soldiers going into a fight; others looked frightened, features pale. Rifle barrels glistened in the glare of the August sun; the air filled with the sound of tramping feet, the clatter of tin cups banging on canteens, the distant shouts of officers and file closers, yelling for the men to keep their alignment, drummers marking the beat.

He turned, looking forward again. Cavalry troopers, some mounted, some on foot, were streaming back, a few turning to fire, smoke drifting across the field; the advancing and retreating Confederate lines passed through each other. The infantry offered some taunts, good-natured in general, about the cavalry getting out of the way now that the real fighting had begun, the troopers offering in mm shouts of encouragement.

Now he could see them, a wall of blue, coming up out of a low valley a quarter mile away, their battle line spreading out, flags marking regiments, a dozen flags at least, a division-wide front. He scanned the lines. This was going to be a straight-out, head-on collision, no fancy maneuvering, a knockdown battle out in the open. The ground a couple of hundred yards ahead dropped down into a shallow ravine. It looked to be marshy ground with high pasture grass, with the Yankees now advancing on to the slope on the other side of the marsh.

Both sides closed, coming straight at each other, their combined rate of advance covering over two hundred yards a minute. What had been a wall of blue was now emerging into individuals, officers out front, flag bearers holding colors aloft The range was now about three hundred yards. The ground ahead was sloping down. Lo looked over at Pickett, who was still mounted, in the lead. Pickett caught his eye, held his sword out sideways, signaling a halt

"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.