Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 (33 page)

"Afraid, Father?"

"Yes, of course, Son."

"I'm terrified."

He put a hand on his son's shoulder.

"When the shooting starts, just remember to stay at your post with the other drummer boys and help the stretcher bearers."

He wanted to say, for God's sake, stay direcdy behind me, let me be your shield this day, but of course he could not say that.

"Your granddaddy is proud of you, William."

The thought of his own father gave him pause. At least his father was safe, a servant in the White House, who, until last week, when they moved out, had sent along daily and often eloquent letters about Lincoln and the reasons for this war of liberation.

He could feel the boy trembling, and he pulled him in close to his side.

"Granddaddy is proud of you, I'm proud."

"I'm proud of you, too," William said, and then with a loving gesture reached up and buttoned the top button of his father's uniform.

"You gotta look right for the men today."

The sergeant major laughed. The darn collar was too tight, but the boy was right.

"I will and so will you."

"Sergeant?"

He looked up. It was Sergeant Miller, company sergeant of A Company, approaching. The man was tall, massive expanse of shoulders, at first look a tough roustabout, but he was always soft-spoken, almost to the point of gentleness, in a tough sort of way. He sensed that Miller had been watching the two and Washington suddenly felt embarrassed.

"Go along now, Son, make sure the drummer boys are up and ready for business."

"Yes, Father
...
I mean, Sergeant."

He turned and ran off.

"I just wanted to report, Sergeant, that Company A is formed and ready to go." "Thank you, Miller."

Miller hesitated, then nodded in the direction of young William..

"How old is your boy?" "Fourteen."

"Doesn't it make you nervous, him being here like this?"

"Do you mean, could I leave him behind?" Washington said and then shook his head. "No, Sergeant. When he said he had to come, too, the way he looked in my eyes, I couldn't say no. It's his future even more than mine that we're fighting for now."

Bartlett chuckled and shook his head.

"Now his mama, now there was the fight, but I told her, 'Woman, if he's old enough to say he wants to fight for freedom, I will not stop him, nor will you.'"

"Still, a son," Miller whispered.

"You have any boys?" Bartlett asked.

Miller stiffened and looked away.

"I did."

There was a moment of silence, and then Miller, voice almost breaking, told about the mob fighting in Baltimore, how his son was gunned down before him as they tried to escape the city.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to go into your personal business," Bartlett offered.

"No, Sergeant. No, it's why I'm here today."

"The name is Washington."

"John here," and the two shook hands.

"I guess if my boy had been given the chance to reach fourteen he'd want to be here, too," Miller finally said.

"That's why mine is."

He paused.

"He'll be safe back with the drummer boys. At least I hope so."

'Think today will make a difference?" Miller asked.

"If we get into this fight, it will," he said sharply.

The two said no more, standing side by side, the regiment finishing its breakfast and lining up, the eastern light brightening.

The White House 5:15 A.M.

H
e arose early. Dressing, he slipped out of the bedroom, walked down the hall, and quietly opened the door to Taddie's bedroom. The boy was asleep, sheet kicked off, a toy stuffed dog on the floor. Lincoln tiptoed in, pulled the sheet up over his boy, picked up the stuffed dog, and set it beside him. It used to be Taddie's favorite, in fact, still was, though he would no longer admit it, saying such things were for little boys, but when it came time for bed he still had to have "Scruffie" by his side.

He kissed Tad lightly on the forehead, slipped out of the room and down the corridor to his office. His secretary, John Hay, as was so often the case, was within, asleep on the sofa, a scattering of newspapers and dispatches on the floor by his side.

Lincoln walked over to the window and opened it slowly so as not to disturb John. Down on the White House lawn below, troops were still camped, some of the very few still left in this city. A couple of sentries walked their beat on Pennsylvania Avenue, the two stopping for a moment, leaning on their rifles to chat. Then an officer approached, and they quickly resumed their monotonous pacing, the officer turning away. The man paused, looked up, saw Lincoln in the window, and saluted. Lincoln nodded, gave a friendly wave, and the officer disappeared into the morning mist rising off of the Potomac and the marshland behind the White House.

Lincoln went over to his desk, sat down, and, striking a match, lit the lamp, adjusted the wick, and replaced the glass chimney. It was an ugly, elaborate thing, with three insipid brass angels holding up the base, that Mary had picked out at Tiffany's on one of her "decorating sprees" that cost so much it was still causing him headaches with Congress.

He looked at his desk. Nothing new had come in since he had retired at midnight. But it would start coming in, and quite soon. He put his feet up on the desk, tilted his chair back, and closed his eyes, but could not fall asleep.

Frederick 5:20 A.M.

Gen
. Ulysses S. Grant, rubbing his brow, walked out of his tent and his staff came to attention. Ely came up, offering him a cup of coffee. Ord, Sheridan, and Banks were waiting.

"Anything new?" Grant asked.

"Quiet on the other side except for digging," Phil reported.

Grant nodded. That had been a lingering concern, that Lee just might try to pull the first move, but he was not noted for night attacks. If roles were reversed, he would have ordered his men to stand down, to rest, just as Lee had done, other than for the front line of troops, who had commenced digging once darkness fell.

Campfires were flickering up, men cooking their morning rations, something he Jiad ordered the afternoon before. He wanted these men well fed, with full canteens, before the day started.

A few drums rattled, a distant bugle called. On the slope below him Phil's reserve division, the colored troops, were already up, beginning to form ranks. Backpacks, any unnecessary baggage was left behind; each man was to carry just rifle, haversack, canteen, and eighty rounds of ammunition. A surgeon was. already preparing for the day under an awning, his staff unloading boxes of bandages from a wagon, a stack of crutches piled up behind the awning, and two men were digging a pit to receive the severed limbs.

Out in the fields beyond, regiments were forming up, the reserve units, just beyond gunnery range. The forward edge of this fight was already down on the line, hidden within the bank of fog filling the Monocacy Valley. There was a slight temptation to order them in right now, under cover of the fog, but it would take a half hour or more for the orders to be sent, and in that half hour the fog would undoubtedly burn off.
No, the plan has been set, don't change it now.

"You better get back to your commands," Grant said. "I'll come along later to check. Just remember your orders, our mission this day."

The three corps commanders saluted, mounted up, and rode off, Phil with a bit of a wild dash, saber drawn while standing in his stirrups. Yes, he was something of a showman, but every army needed at least one like that, just as long as he didn't go off and do something reckless.

Grant took the cup of coffee offered by Ely and walked back to where he had sat the night before, camp chair set up, the open plateau, the sloping plain down to the creek, all wide-open ground, except for the squared-off farmers' woodlots. It was getting brighter by the minute, the stars of Orion's shoulder fading, washed out, the horizon now a brilliant gold.

He sipped his coffee and waited, Ely standing by his side, silent. The sun broke the horizon, a brilliant shaft of light marking the start of the day, of August 27.

6:00 A.M.

R
emember!" Henry Hunt shouted. "I want measured fire. I want every shot to count. You Western boys claim you're so damn good, now prove it to me!" His booming voice carried up and down the line. Gunners looked up from their pieces, officers standing behind them, gazing in Hunt's direction, his last comment producing some grins, but also a few catcalls about the kind of "damn" shooting he was about to see.

He waited a few more minutes, the red-golden orb of the sun now clear of the horizon, the top of the fog bank catching the light, wisps of it curling up like glowing streamers. A bit of fog and wood smoke clung to the opposite bank, but the higher hills were clearly visible. Behind him the Catoctin Range stood out boldly; looking back he saw the white tops of wagons coming down out of the pass, supply trains, an endless column of them, most likely clear back to Hagerstown.

He continued to wait, feeling the tension, for all of it now rested on him, his one command.

Again it was like Union Mills, when he was ordered to open the action, Meade by his side, waiting expectantly for the rain to ease, the fog and smoke to clear enough, so that he and his gunners could see their targets. The tension was the same, but this morning the air was clear, and what he wanted was directly in front of him. It was a bit similar to Union Mills, too, rebel batteries were dug in, but due to the twisting Monocacy and the lay of the land, he would have them in a partial enfilade. At least eighty guns lined the crest of the McCausland Farm, fourteen hundred yards away. Their only advantage was they were a good hundred feet higher, but still they stood out clearly.

One other thing was different. Grant was not by his side. They had discussed the plan of action yesterday afternoon, a brief conversation again just before sunset when Grant rode down to survey the position, and now he stood alone. He liked that. Meade had clung to his side throughout the bombardment at Union Mills and had even subtly tried to force him into actually taking responsibility for the ordering of that disastrous charge.

No, Grant was leaving him to do the job, and he liked that trust.

A few more minutes passed.

Scattered rifle fire began to crackle down in the fog, which was beginning to burn off, skirmishers opening up. It was time.

"Battalions, make your shots count!" Henry roared and then raised his fist. "On my command!" He slammed his fist down.

"Fire!"

The battle of Monocacy Creek had begun.

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 6:10 A.M.

T
here it goes!" Walter exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement. Puffs of smoke, scores of them, erupted from the Union grand battery a mile away, guns fired almost in unison. Lee stood silent, watching.

Approximately seven seconds later the first shell landed, impacting in front of the batteries rimming the edge of McCausland Farm. Then dozens of geysers of earth erupted, explosions in the air from well-cut fuses, smothering his own batteries in smoke and fire. A caisson went up with a flash; a gun upended, flipping over; another collapsed, pieces of its wheel flying through air.

The concussion of the guns rumbled over them, a continual roar, followed seconds later by the softer popping of exploding shells, and the thunderclap of the exploding caisson.

"So it will be our left," Longstreet announced, coming up to join Lee.

They waited,
banks of smoke covering the Yankee gun position. No fire for several minutes, the smoke slowly clearing, and then a few guns fired, followed seconds later by dozens more.

His own batteries started to reply, and Lee raised his field glasses to study the result. Shots went wide, plowing up earth several hundred yards ahead of the enemy batteries, others struck behind it, one lucky, or well-aimed, shot dismounted one of their pieces.

Several minutes passed, another gradual rumbling, several more of his own guns were destroyed.

Lee watched, saying nothing. The Yankees were firing very slowly, deliberately, waiting for the smoke to clear. Well-trained crews rolled their pieces back up. Then section commanders took the time to carefully aim their piece, removing the delicate rear sight, stepping back, then giving the command to fire.

The guns at McCausland Farm were his reserve batteries, and crews were primarily infantrymen "volunteered" into the artillery after the huge haul of equipment at Union Mills. They had trained for the last seven weeks, but seven weeks did not equal two years of battle experience. It was going to be hell for them down there.

His own trained batteries were deployed on the slope just below him, the range to the enemy guns almost a mile—very long shooting indeed.

He had noticed it yesterday, the way Grant was deploying, and it demonstrated a good judgment of ground, and of target. He was tempted to order the batteries to pull back, but decided against it for the moment. It was a grim calculation. Pull back now and it might actually trigger an effect not desired, for Grant might hesitate, wondering what he was up to. Also, regardless of the measured pace of the Yankee fire, long experience had taught him that, over time, accuracy would decrease due to smoke, fatigue, due even to such factors as the heating of gun barrels, which generated subde changes in trajectory.