Grant Comes East - Civil War 02 (56 page)

His staff wearily dismounted, one of the men gently urging the trembling beast back up to its feet so they could undo the saddle and bridle.

They were atop a low ridge. In the valley looking back toward the village of Christiana, he saw hundreds of his troopers streaming across the open fields and farm lots. The incessant crackle of carbine fire echoed in the distance and there, a mile away, the damnable Yankees, still on his tail, still pressing, still keeping pace.

How
could
they?
he wondered, filled with mixed admiration and rage. These were not Yankee troopers, they couldn't be. Anytime in the past he would have left them a dozen miles in the rear by now, and yet doggedly they pressed on, scooping up those exhausted men of his dwindling brigade who fell behind.

He had long since abandoned his battery of guns, the artillerymen cutting the axles and spiking the touchholes. The few supply wagons loaded with ammunition had been abandoned as well, so that his men rode only with what they carried in their cartridge boxes and saddlebags.

He would still outrun them; he had to. Never had this happened across the entire war, and he would not be the first of Stuart's cavaliers to be cut off and ignobly defeated by a bunch of damn shopkeepers and mechanics on horseback.

The
Battle
of
Gunpowder
River,
Maryland

August
19,1863 5:10
p.m.

G
eneral Longstreet, thank God!" Pete rode up to George's side. His division commander looked on the edge of complete collapse, hat gone, arm in a sling, blood dripping down his uniform and on to his leg.

Pete took all this in with a sharp glance. For the last half hour, in his final dash up to the front, he had seen the wreckage of battle streaming to the rear, wounded by the hundreds, ambulances filled with casualties, men staggering back, dropping from heat exhaustion, dead men sprawled in the middle of the road, and always forward the incessant roar of a pitched battle.

"What is going on here?" Longstreet cried.

"Sir, as ordered, we advanced out of Baltimore shortly after dawn," Pickett gasped. "At around two I deployed into battle formation, three brigade front, and moved forward to relieve General Stuart. We ran smack into the middle of their Third Corps, one division to start. We met them head-on and gave them hell."

He sighed, trembling, swaying in the saddle, so that Pete had to lean over and brace him.

"Go on."

"Sir. They brought up a second division, deployed to my left, so I extended my line, then a third division, which forced me to withdraw several hundred yards and refuse the left. I know McLaws is to my north, but I couldn't extend enough to make a solid front and lost contact with him. Now I think their Sixth Corps is coming in. We've held them for three hours, but if their Sixth comes in, I think we'll be forced back."

His voice trailed off for a moment and he lowered his head.

"My God, Pete. My division. My boys. I think I've lost
half my men in this fight. We can't hold much longer. I need support."

"You weren't supposed to do this!" Pete roared. "You were to engage, then withdraw slowly back on your support."

Pickett looked at him wide-eyed, unable to speak.

"You were to fall back, not wreck your division!"

"I'm sorry, sir," George replied, voice breaking. "I felt I could handle them, and I did until they brought up another corps."

"General Hood's been forced to move his lead division farther forward to try and support you!" Pete shouted. "His men have forced-marched over forty miles. You were to fall back, damn it!"

Longstreet looked past Pickett to the volley line, shadowy in the smoke. This was typical of George, focusing on the ground. Ground that had been insignificant a day before, now suddenly so important that a thousand should die holding it, if for no other reason than pride. Now he had bled most of his division out fighting an entire corps. Granted, he had most likely given back as good as he received, but still, the butcher bill was beyond anything he or Lee wanted to pay.

"I want you to prepare to withdraw now," Pete said.

Pickett looked at him, incredulous.

"Sir, my men have paid dearly for this ground."

"It's not the ground I want at this moment," Pete snapped. "General Lee wants Sickles, but not at the price of destroying the only army we have left on this field. Hood's old division even now is deploying behind you, a mile back. You are to fall back."

"I object, sir. Ask Hood to come forward. I think we should hold here. My boys have paid a terrible price for this ground, and to retreat now," he sighed, "it will mean defeat. I cannot see surrendering ground that gallant Southern blood has been spilt upon."

Longstreet looked at him, incredulous. It had been the same at Gettysburg, the first day, General Lee suddenly obsessed with ground purchased by blood, not willing to give it back, not able to see at that moment the broader nature of the fight, the battle, the entire war. Thank God, Lee had realized it in time, and then developed the plan that had created Union Mills. And now Pickett was caught in the same lust.

"Hood's men cannot move another foot. Damn it, follow my orders," Pete snapped. "Obey my orders now or surrender your command to someone who will!"

5.30pm

'
T
hat's it, Warren. Go, boys, go!"

Riding at the front of his Second Division, Gouverneur Warren turned, sword raised, offering a salute to Sickles.

Behind Warren a division was deployed on a front a third of a mile wide, coming up out of the swale of Gunpowder River, advancing at the walk, bayonets fixed, rifles held at the "bayonet charge." The vast, terrifying, machinelike line marched into the smoke slowly drifting back from the thundering volley line held by the shattered remnants of the forward divisions, Third Corps and his own division, which he had thrown in an hour ago.

Already some of his men were dropping from sheer exhaustion, the heat most likely hovering at a hundred degrees. Here and there distant, spent rounds were striking men with still enough force to fracture a skull or break an arm. As quickly as men fell, others closed up the ranks.

Knowing that the ritual moment had passed, Warren reined in as they went into the smoke, letting the first wave of five regiments, all of them Vermont boys, press forward. Those closest to him raised kepis in salute and pressed on into the fog of battle.

He swung in behind the first line, in the swirling smoke catching sight of the second wave, tough, hardened veterans of the old First Corps, still carrying their original corps banner though they had been incorporated into his own. He stood tall in the stirrups.

"Old First. Remember Gettysburg! Remember Reynolds. God be with you!"

His salute, a reminder of glory and tragedy past, roused them and a cheer went up.

"The First, the First, the First, remember Reynolds!"

He fell in to their front, riding with them.

The volume of fire ahead increased, deep thunder of artillery adding in, the whirl of spent canister rounds slashing overhead.

The line passed the ground where the first volleys had been fired, crossing over the prone formation of hundreds of dead and dying men, of the Third Corps, their reduced numbers a cold, frightful testament to their courage, their resilience, and discipline, to having stood under the blazing August sun, exchanging volley after volley with Pickett's legion.

Lying on the ground, a few of those wounded looked up, raising clenched fists in salute.

"Give 'em hell, boys, give it to them!" the cry echoed. More than one of the advancing line stripped off a precious canteen and tossed it to the fallen; hands touched hands, the fallen and those still to fall.

These men of the old First knew, they knew far more than perhaps any veterans of the war, what was to come. These were the men that had held Seminary Ridge at Gettysburg, losing seventy percent of their numbers. These were the men who had gone in at Fredericksburg, charged the Cornfield at Antietam, and stood in volley line against the Stonewall Division at Groveton. The humiliation of Union Mills burned in their souls, and it was time to right that, to restore pride, even if it meant dying in the act of succeeding. They were the inner heart, the steel soul of the republic.

Here t
hey come!" Lo Armistead looked up, torn away from
the
side of a dying comrade who was whispering a final farewell, a wish to be buried alongside his wife in Stanton. He could see nothing for a moment. His eyes stung, watered, and with a blood-soaked hand he tried to wipe them clear.

Yes, my God, he could see them, a solid, blue-black wall emerging out of the smoke.

"Oh, my God, here they come!"

The cry went up and down the line. Exhausted men coming back to their feet. With a final burst of draining energy, men struggled to ram another charge down fouled barrels. Where a thick, solid double line had stood two and a half hours ago, now there was little more than a skirmish line, here and there half a dozen feet between men, thicker clusters around shot, shredded battle flags.

Lo wept unashamedly at the sight of it, tears streaming down his blackened face. Victory or defeat, never had he known such pride as he did at this moment, his men still not giving back, still standing defiant. And yes, pride in his foe as well, who he knew had suffered as grievously as his own brigade, and yet were still coming on.

"Volley fire." His words came out as an inaudible croak.

He turned to one of the few of his staff still standing; the man, knowing what he wanted, handed over his canteen. Lo took a deep drink, then another, hawked, and spit, clearing his parched throat

"Volley fire. Virginians! Volley fire!"

His desperate cry was echoed and picked up.

"Lo!"

It was Pickett and, to his amazement, Longstreet at his side, oblivious it seemed to the wall of Yankees coming at them.

"Fire and withdraw!" Pete shouted. 'Try and keep formation; don't let your men break!"

The two galloped off before Lo could respond in outrage to the order. He would be damned if his men would ever break.

The Yankee line was closer, a hundred and fifty yards out. "Volley fire, then withdraw fifty paces on my command!" Lo shouted.

"Virginians, take aim!"

Where once more than twenty-five hundred rifles would have been lowered in response, now barely a thousand remained.

'Take aim!"

Again the reassuring and yet frightful sound of hammers being pulled back. "Fire!"

A wall of fire erupted. Not coordinated, starting at the center, then rippling down the line to either flank. "Virginians. Back fifty paces!"

His men seemed to hesitate. Heartbreakingly, he saw one of his men directly to his front lean over, an elderly man, beard gray, kissing a fallen boy on the forehead, laying a Bible on his breast.

The battle line started to fall back, the few surviving officers shouting for the men to hold steady. The elderly man was by Lo's side and Lo reached out, touching his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Lo whispered.

"My only boy," the man replied and then lowered his head.

5.45pm

'
T
hey're breaking!"

Warren pushed his mount to a canter, coming up behind the line of the Vermont regiments. They were across an open, marshy stretch of pasture, leaving behind the exhausted men of the Third Corps and his own first division. The sight had been horrific. Here had been a fight like Groveton, the Cornfield, a stand-up, knock-down volley fight at two hundred yards that had endured for hours, neither side willing to give back, neither side able to advance under the withering fire delivered by their opponents. In places, the dead and wounded of the Third Corps were heaped two and three deep, the survivors hunkered down behind the Mien.

The marsh was actually stained pink with blood, as hundreds of wounded from both sides had crawled down to the water, desperate for anything to drink. The formation of the

Verm
onters broke repeatedly and re-formed as they swung around clusters of the fallen. They pushed up the slope, and a volley hit. In the seconds before it slashed in, he saw what they were facing, a thin line, looking to be nothing more than skirmishers, which disappeared behind the smoke. But their fire was still deadly, dozens of boys from Barrington, Bennington, and Stowe dropping.

Without orders from him, the cry went up for advance on the double, drummers increasing the cadence, men now leaning forward, picking up the pace of their advance. Behind him he could hear the third brigade shouting, surging forward, crying Reynolds's name.

A second volley hit, not as effective as the first but dropping more nevertheless, and then there was a shadow across the crest, and for a second he hesitated. It looked as if a solid line was down on the ground, waiting now to stand up and deliver a scathing volley at point-blank range.

But these were men who would never stand again. The dead were piled thick, the ground behind them carpeted with wounded crawling back. The attack slowed for a second, as soldiers stepped gingerly over the enemy fallen, then pressed forward yet again, only to encounter a second line of fallen a hundred yards farther back, atop the low crest of a hill.