Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 (15 page)

"We hit a Yankee infantry column about twenty miles north of here. Phil, it's a sham, all a sham." "What do you mean?"

"We came over a rise and there they were, a column marching on the road, not even any skirmishers forward. Scared the hell out of me. I mean we were less than fifty yards away when we ran smack into them."

He grinned weakly.

"One sight of us, though, the mighty cavalry of the Confederate army"—Syms chuckled at the memory—"and the entire column bolted and ran like sheep. Not a shot fired, they weren't even loaded up.

"We ran them down, took a dozen prisoners, the rest of them just disappearing, jumping fences, throwing their rifles and packs away, running off into the woods and across the fields. Hell, if I had fifty men, I could have bagged five hundred."

"Militia?"

"You're damn right. Nothing but militia. If it wasn't so funny, I'd of been disgusted with 'em. One of them, a lieutenant, cried like a baby and spilled everything when we threatened to shoot him."

"My God, you didn't!" Phil said.

"Hell, no." Syms grinned weakly. "He said all the boys in his division were in the army for ninety days to avoid the draft. The entire army was just like him. They'd been lying about Harrisburg for weeks. Just hating Grant's men who lorded it over them. Grant's boys are moving to the west, behind the mountains. These boys, under Couch, crossed the river by ferry down at Wrightsville. Supposedly close on to twenty thousand of them. They were even told they wouldn't have to face a battle, just march about for a week or so."

Phil sat back on his heels.

"Damn all."

The realization hit. McPherson's men, tough veterans, had crossed at Harrisburg. If they weren't in front of him, that meant they had to be on the road over the other side of the South Mountains.

It was fitting together. Custer makes a dash to seize the pass at Frederick; McPherson comes through with the rest of the army behind him.

'The rest of your men?" Phil asked.

"We got jumped riding through Gettysburg on the way down here looking for you. Some troopers from your friend's brigade."

He seemed to drift away for a moment, then sighed. "I had to leave my men behind, Phil. I had the best mount. The boys even told me to ride for it and carry the news back to you. My boys, they're dead now or prisoners. They turned back to fight while I rode off."

Phil knelt by his side, holding his hand, and shook him slightly.

"Look at me," Phil said softly, and the lieutenant gazed up at him.

"Are you certain of this report? The entire army north of us is militia?"

"That's what the prisoners we took told us. They were scared. Hell, I hated to do it, but I had a cocked gun to the lieutenant's head and said I'd blow the man's brains out if the others lied. We kept them separated, then brought them up before the lieutenant one at a time, and they all said the same thing. One of 'em even identified the four corps marching with Grant—McPh
erson, then Burn
side, then Ord, and finally Banks. That poor lieutenant soiled his britches, he was so frightened."

"Wish you'd brought him back."

"Couldn't. So we just told them to strip naked—they thought we were going to shoot them—and then we sent them running with a few shots over their heads."

Syms chuckled at the memory.

He laid back, breathing hard.

Phil put a hand to his forehead. Syms was burning with fever. He looked down at Syms's right leg, hit the day before. The man had been riding with his boot off. Leaning over, Phil sniffed the bandage and suppressed a gag reflex.

Lucas was up by their side with a blanket, and the black servant was on the porch, bringing a pillow and blankets as well.

"Lieutenant, why don't you rest here awhile," Phil said softly. He looked up at the servant.

"I'll take care of him, sir," the servant said quietly. Syms didn't argue.

"I'm played out, Phil. Just played out."

"Custer's boys will take care of you."

"Hate to lose the leg. Damn me. Sally sure did like to dance. I can't picture her marrying a cripple."

"You'll be dancing soon enough," Phil lied. "And besides, she loves you and will be honored to marry you." This time he spoke the truth, his voice choking.

Syms forced a smile.

Phil stood back up, looking at his men.

Their mounts were blown, and in this region finding new horses would be impossible. It had been picked over clean the month before.

They'd have to ride with what they had.

"Let's go," he said quietly. He'd have to find someone to push ahead, to get down to the nearest telegraph outpost and send the word of what was happening here. That might take hours.

Sadly, he looked back at his old comrade that he was leaving behind.

He pulled out his notebook, opened it, and scribbled out a quick message.

To General George Armstrong Custer,

As a favor to your old room
mate. Please take care of my
friend. Lieutenant Syms. He is an honorable soldier of the South. After the war he plans
to marry my sister Sally. When
all this is over, I look forward to a chance to see you again under less difficult circumstances.

Yours truly, Phil Duvall Class of
1861

He handed the note to the servant, then tore off another sheet, jotting down his report.

"Sergeant Lucas, find someone with the best horse. Have him ride to Westminster."

"Sir?"

"The telegraph station there might still be open. If Custer is driving southwest toward Frederick, they might be bypassing that place. Tell the courier to ride like hell."

Lucas took the note, walked down the line of mounted troopers, picked one out, handed up the note, and the man was off at a gallop.

There was a rattle of carbine fire at the north edge of town. He caught a glimpse of some Yankee troopers. A few rounds hummed overhead.

"Let's go," Phil shouted, mounting up and turning to look back one last time at his old friend, who weakly raised a hand in salute.

The small column turned and rode off, heading toward Frederick.

Baltimore, Maryland

August 24 6:30 P.M.

G
eneral Lee rode alone through the early evening, long shadows descending on the camps that ringed the west side of the city. The days were getting shorter, a touch of a cooling breeze was a welcome relief after a day of heat. Campfires were flaring to life, men standing about them.

There were snatches of laughter, a banjo and hornpipe playing, a few of the more energetic men dancing to the tune. The air was rich with the scent of fresh roasting meat. Each regiment had been given a bullock or a couple of pigs for dinner, and the meat had been roasting throughout the afternoon.

Several of the regiments were planning evenings of entertainment, amateur skits, song and dance presentations, a minstrel show, and a theater group from Baltimore was appearing before the boys of Scales's Division with a presentation of Shakespeare's
Julius Caesar,
starring one of the Booth family, John Wilkes, as Brutus. He wished he could attend but was pressed by other matters.

As he wove his way through the camps, men who saw him approaching lined the road, cheering, taking off caps and holding them high, officers with a flourish drawing swords to salute. A young lady, visiting one of the camps, actually stepped in front of him, blocking his path, and offered up a bouquet of flowers, which, a bit embarrassed, he took and then, once out of her sight, handed to Walter Taylor, who trailed along behind him.

He was taking his ride for several reasons. One, of course, was to be seen by the men. The second was to see them, to evaluate their spirits after the grueling efforts of the previous weeks, and the third was just to have time to think.

He could see that though the men were tired the morale of his army was as good as ever. They had known nothing but victory since Fredericksburg. After but a single day of rest their spirits were returning, though in one sense that was deceiving. He had spent most of the day reviewing with his three corps commanders the muster returns. Dozens of regimental and brigade commanders again needed to be replaced. Promotions by the dozens would have to be written up. Many regiments were now commanded by captains, companies by sergeants. If given time, he would most likely break down Pickett's Division and reassign the remnants to beef up Scales, whose division he was now passing.

Scales had been out of the fight, shadowing Washington, but he had been ordered north to Baltimore. Lee sensed that every rifle would be needed and that division, the remnants of Pender and Pettigrew, having sat out the last fight, would now be his vanguard when the time came to move. Besides, the sham of threatening Washington was past.

It was Grant whom he wanted now. It all rested on that, one sharp action with Grant. Lure him into an action as decisive as Union Mills or Gunpowder River—break him, and in breaking him, break Lincoln as well. Finally, leave the stubborn Illinois lawyer with no choice but to accept that he could not coerce the South.

He stopped under a spread of elms canopying the road, loosening his reins, Traveler moving to the side of the road to nibble at some tall grass growing along the fencerow. A steady stream of traffic moved by in both directions, a company of troops marching by, a couple of supply wagons heading back into the city, a drover leading half a dozen cattle. Lee's staff kept a respectful distance, whispering for those passing to let the general have a few minutes alone, and all obeyed the request, the passing column of infantry silently coming to present arms as they marched by.

He dismounted, going over to lean on the fence, looking out over the encampment that spread out across the open fields outside of Baltimore. More fires -were flaring up, cheers erupting from where Scales was camped. Most likely the acting troupe had arrived, a circle of torches being ignited to illuminate the stage where the story of Caesar would be enacted.

He felt that the clock was now ticking. He wished for nothing more than "to give these men a few more days like this. Plenty to eat, time to sleep as much as they wanted, to write letters home, to horseplay, to forget for a brief moment what they had been through, and to ignore what faced them again.

An inner sense told him, though, that such would not be the case. This was a last night of peace, a single night of peace before it would all start again.

He bowed his head.

"Dear Lord, please guide me in the days to come," he whispered. "Give me strength to do what is right. Guide me always to seek the honorable path and in so doing bring this terrible struggle to an end.

"For those whom I lead, dear God, and for those whom I face. I know many will fall in the days to come. Forgive them their sins and bring them into your loving embrace. Let friend and foe come together before your holy throne as brothers once more. Amen."

"General Lee? Forgive me, sir, for interrupting."

He looked over his shoulder. It was Walter, his hat off.

Walter was pointing toward the road that wove past the defensive earthworks of Baltimore. Coming toward them was a carriage, and he could see Judah Benjamin, Jeb Stuart, and Pete Longstreet.

"Thank you, Walter."

Lee saluted Judah as he stepped down, followed by Pete and Jeb.

The three came over to the side of the road to join him.

"I suspect, gentlemen, you bring news," Lee said.

Judah nodded and Lee could see the look in Longstreet's eyes.

"A telegram just came in from Westminster. It's troubling, sir."

"Go on."

"Sir, a report from a captain with the Third Virginia. The same boys who were covering Carlisle. He states that the Yankee infantry moving on the east side of the mountains are nothing but militia. It looks like Grant's main striking force is west of the mountains."

Lee listened in silence. He nodded, saying nothing, taking the information in.

"How reliable?" Lee asked.

"I know the captain of that troop," Jeb said. "A good man, West Point. I was slating him for promotion to a regimental command. He's done excellent scout work in the past."

"How did he get this information?"

"The first telegram just gave the general details, a second one came in a few minutes later. It stated that a patrol had encountered a column of infantry north of Gettysburg and taken prisoners. The sender declared the information to be reliable."

Lee looked over at Jeb.

"I wish we had more to go on," Lee said.

"I know, sir. I do, too. It's taking a devilish long time to get our mounts rested, reshod, and refitted. I've already detailed two regiments up to Westminster with orders to force a probe. Jones and Jenkins, minus about half their men, are moving down the B and O right now, covering that line."

'The B and O," Judah sighed, shaking his head.

"One other thing," Pete said, interrupting Judah before that conversation over the railroad started. "The report from Westminster also stated that an entire brigade, under Custer, is driving hard, is already into Taneytown, heading southwest, apparently pushing toward Frederick."