Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 (29 page)

Collapsed buildings still smoldered, civilians picking through the wreckage, a dazed woman standing by the side of the road clutching a flame-scorched portrait. A detail of soldiers, several of them Confederate prisoners, was hauling buckets of water, flinging them against the side of a home which was partially burned and still flickering with flames. A brick house, windows shot out, had a hospital flag flying in front of it; dozens of homes now displayed that flag, or just white bedsheets hanging out of windows. Wounded Union and Confederates lay on the sidewalk, while from within came ghastly cries of anguish.

An upended limber wagon blocked a sidestreet, several of the horses still alive, whimpering in pain, and Grant turned to one of his men, asking him to put the poor beasts out of their misery. He loathed the sight of an animal in pain.

In another section of town, nearly an entire block had been leveled by fire, smoke billowing up from the ruins. A church, its steeple tilting at a drunken angle after being hit by an exploding shell, had its doors flung open. On its doorstep he saw Union and Confederate doctors, working together, doing the grisly task of admitting some within and quietly telling many stretcher bearers to cany their burden "around the back," which meant they were too far gone for help.

The windows of nearly every shop were smashed in, and from a tree two bodies dangled on ropes, one a rebel, another a Union soldier, signs hanging from their stiffening bodies:
looters & cowirds.

He edged his way toward the center of town. Here the battle had been at its fiercest Dead carpeted the sidewalks, dangled from windows, were sprawled into shop windows, and laid curled up in alleyways. A cavalry detachment, a few weary men from Custer's command, were mounted and at the center of town, directing Ord's column to keep moving eastward, to not stop till the far side of town.

"General Sheridan's headquarters?" Ely asked, and a trooper pointed down the road.

"At the Frederick railroad depot, about four blocks ahead, sir," and the men saluted as Grant rode by.

"General Grant!"

He looked over at his inquirer, a civilian carrying a cumbersome box with tripod over his shoulder. "Sir, a favor!" "What is it?" Grant asked.

"Sir, General McPherson was shot right over there." The photographer pointed toward a corner building at the center of town, several bodies lying in the gutter, bloodstains still in the street.

Grant stared at him.

"May I have your portrait there, sir? Surely the
Illustrated Weekly
will want this one. General Grant mourns at the place McPherson fell."

Though obscenities were rare for him, one spilled forth now, and turning, he rode on, staff glaring coldly at the photographer who stood there, mystified by the response. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he moved on, setting up his camera for another shot of the troops when they paused for a break.

He pushed on, past a house where a tattered Confederate regimental flag dangled from a third-floor window. He saw a column of exhausted rebel prisoners, fifty or more, being escorted by several equally exhausted guards, a minister saying a prayer over a dozen blanketed bodies, a Catholic priest giving communion to several men who had stopped for his blessing, and then to his amazement, an embalmer who was selling policies.

Men like him always trailed the armies. They'd sell an "embalming policy" for fifty dollars to any soldier and issue him a receipt. If a comrade brought the body in with the receipt, the deliverer received five dollars, the body was supposedly embalmed, usually poorly done, and then shipped to the family.

Some of Mcpherson's men were negotiating with him, dead bodies lying around his wagon.

"Drive that scoundrel off," Grant snapped, and several of the men of Grant's headquarters detail were more than happy to comply, one of th
em deliberately smashing the em
balmer's bottles of fluids with his sword, then drawing a pistol on him and telling him, "Get the hell out of this town, you son of a bitch."

Grant did not look back, but rode on. At last he saw it, the rail depot. It was a wreck, a small roundhouse burned to the ground, several cars still flickering with flames, a warehouse all but flattened by fire except for the skeleton
-
like eyes of its windows.

He spotted Sheridan out front, Ord by his side, and Hunt leaning against a tree, smoking a cigar. At his approach the three came to attention.

"Quite a mess here in town," Sheridan announced, as Grant rode up.

"I can see that."

"No fighting to report, sir. The rebels gave back during the night and retreated across the Monocacy."

Grant nodded. No news there. At dawn he had seen it clearly enough. Frankly, he did not expect Lee to try to fight him on this side of the creek. There was no good tactical ground for him to hold, other than to try to maintain his grip on the town and block the one road.

Grant dismounted, tossed his cigar aside, and walked over to a table where Phil had a map spread out, pencil marks indicating troop movements. The other officers fell in around him.

Grant puffed on his cigar as he leaned over the map and studied it intently, examining where Sheridan had sketched in the rebel positions.

"We fight hira here," Grant said.

"But he has chosen this ground," Hunt replied. "Sir, I know you said we should stop trying to worry about what Lee wants, but still, from experience, sir, when that man chooses ground, it means a tough fight."

"And that is precisely why I will fight him here," Grant

replied sharply. "He wants this fight, and so do I. Let him choose this ground, this particular place. It will fix him in place the way I want it."

He leaned back, rubbing his brow again.

Ord grinned and said nothing.

Grant leaned over the map again.

"We just had a report come up from the depot," Sheridan said, "that General Longstreet was spotted."

"Is Beauregard up yet?"

"No indication of that, sir," Sheridan replied. "We've accounted for two divisions of Hood's. About a hundred guns are deploying along the heights above the depot and also over on our right flank here."

He pointed to where the creek took a turn to the southwest for a mile or so before bending back to the south.

"It's called the McCausland Farm. A good open hill. Guns there can enfilade the depot area."

"Sir," Ord interjected, "we have two intact corps up. Hunt has his batteries up. Why don't we go for them here?"

He pointed toward the McCausland Farm.

"There's a ford below the farm. My boys could force it."

Grant nodded, looking at the map, remembering the lay of the terrain he had spent hours studying yesterday.

"Your boys have marched for nearly twenty-four hours," Grant said.

"My command, then," Sheridan offered. 'They've had several hours' rest."

"I want you to hold the center of the line and the left flank," Grant said. "You're already in position for that."

He contemplated the move and then finally nodded.

"I want to keep the pressure on Lee, but Banks is not yet up. General Ord, a limited attack, later in the day. Do not bring on a general engagement, though."

"Sir?"

"The last thing I want now is to push Lee out of this position, but I do not want him to think we are suffering from temerity. Commit as if we are about to try a serious lunge, but conserve your boys."

"If I gain the ford?" Ord asked.

"Hold it, of course. That will force him to want to take it back, but do not bring on a general engagement." "I understand, sir."

Grant sat down on, of all things, a church pew that had been carried out of the church across the street and his staff gathered round as Sheridan held a map up, Grant behind him, tracing out the move.

He hated giving orders like this for a limited attack. A "demonstration" they use to call it at the Point. Still, such a demonstration might cost a thousand lives before it was done.

One Mile Southeast ofMonocacy J
unction 2:00 P.M.

T
he train drifted to a halt. Emily Hoffman gazed out the window, the spectacle around her not registering, for at such a moment the world collapses into itself, and the struggle, the anguish, the drama of a hundred thousand others become meaningless.

For the last six miles they had passed train after train stalled on the other track, locomotives puffing, backing up slowly, foot by foot. Troops lined the tracks, marching westward, battle flags at the fore of each regiment. "Miss Hoffman?".

She looked up. It was the kindly Captain Cain, and she forced a smile. "Miss Hoffman?" "Yes, Bill?" "We're here, ma'am." "Thank you."

She stood up. Her parents, sitting across from her, stood as well, her mother reaching out to take her hand, which she refused. She took a deep breath and followed Cain to the back of the single car, empty except for the four of them.Troops piled off the other cars in the train and she realized this was one more part of the war she hated. As she stepped out onto the rear platform, she found a detachment was waiting for her, Confederate cavalry and a small carriage, a battered country type of carriage, barely able to hold four, its top gone, a single aging horse in the traces.

"Sorry about the carriage, ma'am," a major said as she stepped down, taking.Cain's hand. "It's all General Lee could find for you."

She forced a smile as she stepped into the carriage, Cain taking the reins, her mother and father squeezing in on the seat behind her.

The major rode out front, escorts flanking the carriage, and they set off. The road they were on, heading south, was packed with troops, the major riding ahead, shouting for them to clear the way.

The men, grumbling, stepped aside but, at the sight of her, many removed their hats. "That's her," she heard one of them announce as they passed.

The road turned off to the west, and after another turn to the south, they pulled into the drive of a modest two-story frame house.

She recoiled at the sight confronting her. Several hundred men lay in the yard, under the trees of a small orchard, some out in the glaring sun, others under quickly erected awnings of shelter halves and tarps. A tent was set lip outside the building, and to her horror a pile of bloody limbs rested outside the tent.

The major barked a sharp command, and one of his troopers dismounted, grabbed a blanket from behind his saddle, ran up, and threw the blanket over the grisly sight, but it was too late; she had already seen it.

She felt as if she would faint but then whispered a silent prayer for strength.
James must not see me weak, not now
.
Behind her, her mother began to cry.

Cain got down from the carriage and offered his hand.

"This way, Miss Hoffman."

She stepped down from the carriage. All in the yard fell strangely quiet at the sight of her. men whispering to each other. Some of the wounded were boys in blue, and one of them, leg missing below the knee, propped himself on his elbow.

"Let's hear it for old McPherson!" he cried, and a ragged three cheers echoed weakly.

She looked at her escort of Confederate troopers and officers. They were silent, but she could see in their eyes there was no rancor, instead she saw looks of compassion, and she nodded to them, one of the men offering a handkerchief so she could wipe her eyes.

She mounted the steps. A minister was standing there, and for a horrified second she feared she was too late.

"I'm Reverend Lacy," he said. "I used to serve with General Jackson. Now I'm on General Lee's staff. He asked that I attend you, miss. Your fiance is still with us."

"Thank you, Reverend," she whispered.

He extended his hand and she took it.

"He's upstairs, resting at the moment."

"His condition?" her father asked.

The reverend looked straight at her.

"You must be strong, my dear, and place your faith in Our Lord."

"He won't live, will he?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"How long?"

"A few hours perhaps."

"Is he in pain?"

"No. The doctor gave him morphine, though he tried to refuse it. Miss, he is shot through both lungs. It is only a matter of time now."

She said nothing but felt a frightful urgency to see him and stepped into the house. Again she wanted to recoil. It appeared to be the home of a country physician, his office to her right, but the sight within that room filled her with horror, for the doctor was operating on a man, blood dripping to the floor, the doctor bent over, cutting into the man's open thigh. In the parlor to the left, a dozen men were on the floor, a woman, most likely the doctor's wife, bandaging a boy's face, slashed wide open from scalp to jaw. She looked up at Emily, but said nothing.

'This way," Reverend Beverly Lacy said and led her upstairs to the second floor. In what was obviously the doctor's bedroom she saw him as she reached the last step, doorway open.

She took a deep breath, prayed yet again for strength, and slowly walked in. He was under the covers, which were pulled down to his waist. -Chest bandaged, the left side soaked red. A trickle of blood frothed his lips. He was breathing raggedly, gasping, each breath another froth of blood.

She knelt down by his side and took his hand. It was cool to the touch, graying, so unlike the warm strong grasp she once knew, the way he held her when they danced, when they walked together beneath the moonlight, the way his hands had so lovingly cupped her face when they kissed for the first time.

"James."

She leaned "forward and whispered. He moaned sofdy, eyes fluttering.

"The morphine," Lacy whispered behind her. "He knows I'm here now," she replied. "James, it's Emily."

His eyes opened. He turned his head slightly, looked at her, and smiled.

She took the handkerchief given to her by the Confederate officer and wiped his lips.

"Emily." It was barely a whisper.

She leaned forward and kissed him.

She had to be strong, she knew that, and though she wanted to collapse, to cry, to just curl up and die with him, she knew she could not.

She stood up and looked at Lacy.

"A favor, Reverend."

"Anything."

"James and I were to be married. In fact, if not for what is happening now, General Grant had promised him a furlough once Vicksburg was taken for him to come to Baltimore so we could be joined."

She looked back down at James.

"We want to be married," she whispered.

"My dear?" It was her mother standing in the doorway.

A look from Emily silenced her mother. She looked at her father, who nodded in agreement.

Lacy hesitated.

"My dear, at this moment? He is drugged and his time approaches."

"You attended General Jackson at his deathbed, did you not?" she asked.

"Yes, miss," Lacy whispered. "And his wife was present?" "Yes."

"Then let General McPherson's wife attend to him." Lacy did not respond. "Marry us."

It was McPherson, eyes open, a smile on his lips. Lacy nodded in response.

"No years together," McPherson whispered, "no wedding night, but still we have a little time, and then we will be together for all eternity."

Forcing back her tears she took James's hand and turned to face the minister.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Near McCausland's Ford 4:15 P.M.

G
o, boys, go!" Ord was standing in his stirrups, saber drawn, urging his men on as they ran down the slope on the double, in column by regiments. Shells rained down into the packed ranks, men screaming; at the ford, smoke swirled up from volley after volley blazing from the other side of the Monocacy.

"A splendid fight!" Ord shouted. "A splendid fight. Now drive'em to hell!"

He turned and galloped down to the edge of the creek, violating strict orders from Grant to stay to the rear. He knew the general standing at
t
he edge of town might see him, but he no longer cared. The fury of battle was upon him and he loved every second of it.

An Indiana regiment was in
the lead, terrifyingly shred
ded by a volley delivered from the other bank, but they piled into the river anyhow, regardless of loss, plunging into the thigh-deep waters, pushing forward, men collapsing at every step, to be carried off by the waters.

Overhead was an inferno as Hunt's batteries,, firing at long distance, plowed up the field on the other side of the creek and tried to suppress the dozen rebel batteries up next
to a brick farmhouse that overlooked the ford less than a quarter mile away.

The Indiana regiment buckled as it reached midstream and started to give back, boys from Ohio pushing up behind them, gaining another twenty to thirty feet before they, too, started to collapse. Another Ohio regiment pushed in after them, plunging across, and barely gained the muddy bank on the other side. The Union was paying in blood for each foot gained for what was, as their commanding general declared, "a demonstration to fix Lee in place."

On those banks it turned to hand-to-hand fighting, men screaming, cursing, lunging with bayonets. Ohio just barely gained the opposite bank and then the artillery thundered in. The reb infantry gave back, coming out of the willows and ferns that lined the stream, running across the open field, dodging around the exploding shells of Hunt's batteries. As they fell back a terrible inferno erupted, battery after battery lining the hilltop around the McCausland farm opening up, sending down volleys of case shot that exploded over the Monocacy. Any shot that went high detonated or plowed into the ranks of the supporting brigade coming up to join in the assault. Treetops exploded in flames, solid shot slamming into the water threw up geysers thirty feet high pockmarked by the iron and lead balls of case shot slamming into the stream.

Ord, hat off, screamed with fury, urging his men to press in. A courier rode up, the side of his mount dripping blood, the horse limping badly.

"From General Grant, sir!" the courier shouted. "Call it off. Pull back!"

"We have the other bank!" Ord cried.

"You are ordered to call it off, sir!"

Ord reluctandy nodded, shouted for one of his staff to get across the stream, another to order the Second Brigade to turn about and retreat. Buglers began sounding recall throughout the attack.

The first courier into the stream went down, a shell detonating directly over him. Another dashed off, young lieutenants looking for glory were always thus, hoping a general would notice them. He barely made it to the other side, shouting to a regimental commander, and then he, too, pitched out of his saddle.

Within seconds the Ohio regiments on the other side broke and fell back across the stream. The supporting brigade, the men obviously not at all upset about the order to pull back, reversed and started to double-time back up the open slope.

As the last of the Ohio and Indiana regiments came up out of the river bottom, picking up wounded as they retreated, the rebel artillery ceased fire, a taunting cheer rising up from the other side.

"Some demonstration," Ord hissed, as he looked at the hundreds of dead and wounded piled along the riverbank or floating downstream. "I certainly hope Grant is right and this brings about an effect worthy of the lives of these young men.

"Tomorrow, you bastards," he shouted defiantly, and, turning, he retreated with his men.

Baltimore 5:30 P.M.

T
he last train of the artillery reserve rolled out of the Baltimore depot twenty-four hours behind schedule. Cruickshank wiped the sweat from his brow and looked over at McDougal, who had, pulled out a bottle and was taking a "wee nip," something he tended to do at least twice an hour.

"Useless now to try and move Beauregard," Cruickshank said, "but there're the supplies, hundreds of tons of it. Rations, additional ammunition, evacuation back of the wounded, replacement horses and mules."

"And not a locomotive to be seen," McDougal said with a shrug.

"They'll be back tonight." There was almost a pleading note in Cruickshank's weary voice.

"A few perhaps, but you seem to have forgotten something, General."

"And that is?"

"Wood and coal."

"What do you mean?"

"You have over a hundred locomotives up the line and all snarled together. Their boilers have most likely been cooking away all day. They're short of wood and coal."

"I thought the order was given to send the necessary supplies for them up the line."

"Never got out, what with you rushing about, countermanding orders, then countermandering them again."

"Damn it, you should have kept me informed."

"I did, twice today, don't you remember? But you kept saying, 'Get the guns, up, McDougal, get the guns up.'"

He glared at the man, honestly not sure whether he was telling the truth or not. After two days with barely any sleep it was hard to tell anymore what was said just ten minutes ago.

"I'd say two thousand tons should do the trick," McDougal announced, fingers out as if calculating on them. 'That'll be ten of our heavier trains, but we seem short of hopper cars."

"Where the hell are they?"

"A fair number of Robertson's boys rode up on them, General, sir. Don't you remember?"

"No, I don't, damn you," Cruickshank hissed, turning his back on McDougal.

What a simple, stupid, and yet all-too-obvious concern. When he drove supply wagons in Texas before the war, hauling along extra water and grain was a given. If the trains had simply gone up and off-loaded, then come straight back, he would not have a problem now, but many had been stranded up there for over a day, and their crews had undoubtedly kept the boilers lit and steam up.

Of course they'd be running short of fuel by now.

"What is stored along the line?" Cruickshank asked, not looking back.

"What do you mean 'stored'?" McDougal replied. "Fuel, damn it."

"Wood ricks at the stations usually have a couple of cords that local farmers bring in. Coal for some of our newer engines, a few tons at each station. But you got more than a hundred locomotives up there, General, and they're all hungry and thirsty."

McDougal's tone was flat, showing he had enough sense not to rub the general's face in the problem. He knew he could take him on in a good knockdown, and if there had been the slightest hint in his voice, there would have been a fistfight, or better yet knives or pistols, one that had been building for days.

"How many locomotives still in the yard?"

'Three, and all of them are old wheezers."

"Load one of them up with wood and get it up at least to the tunnel and the changeover to a single track."

"Won't haul more than a hundred cord or so."

"I don't care. Just get something up there."

Cruickshank turned to one of his dwindling staff. He had been sending them out on assignments all day and none had yet returned.

"Get a message up to General Lee. Write something down and I'll sign it. Tell him about our fuel problem, and also what you see along the line."

The captain, one of his old drivers, sat down on a barrel and laboriously began to write out the dispatch.

The yard was strangely quiet after the mad bustle of moving out two divisions of infantry and over two hundred artillery pieces. Men who worked for the Baltimore and Ohio were sitting about in the shade, eating their evening meals, laughing and smoking, and somehow he felt that many were looking at him and secretly grinning.

If only Garrett had been cornered into a contract or, better yet, this army had had a trained railroad detachment the way the Yankees did. There were just too many details—and then he inwardly cursed himself, knowing he was trying to justify his own failings.