Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 (49 page)

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

The War Office Washington, D.C.

August 29, 1863 4:00 A.M.

‘T
he line is still down," Elihu Washburne announced, standing in the doorway of his office where Lincoln had spent the night, anxiously pacing back and forth. There was no need during the late morning and early afternoon of yesterday to be told there was a battle on. The rumble had been steady from the northwest until the rain finally came, buffering the sound.

And then the telegraph-line had gone dead. Rumor of that had spread through the city within minutes, anxious crowds gathering again around the White House, the War Department, and the Treasury Office, which was the hub for all the telegraph lines.

Lincoln had stayed in the War Office, not wishing to confront the crowds out in the street.

His pessimism had taken hold during the night. The line had gone down shortly before two in the afternoon. If it was only a temporary break, it should have been up again within minutes. The long hours of silence now told him but one thing. Grant had lost Frederick and was in retreat. The silence could only mean that.

What do I tell the nation now?
He wondered.
Be disciplined and wait for
the facts
,
he counseled himself.

Dawn

Gen. Ulysses S. Grant stood silently, then stretched and looked out over,the plains surrounding Frederick, Maryland.

He had not slept at all. The migraine, the sounds coming from every house in the town and from the surrounding fields, the horrid memory of the Confederate major, head blown off, connecting to the nightmares that still haunted him of a comrade dead in Mexico.

Phil Sheridan wearily came to his side, emerging from the gloom, the smoke, the fog wrapping the field, rising up from the Monocacy and the rain that had fallen throughout the night.

The battle fury was out of Phil; exhaustion was etched in his face and in the way he walked, shock overtaking him as well.

"It's a nightmare down there," Phil said softly, nodding a thanks as Ely handed him a cup of coffee, which he took in both hands. They trembled as he raised it to his lips.

"How could he do it?" Phil asked.

"Who?"

"Lee. My God, sir, he drove his men in relentlessly. It was madness, absolute madness."

"He had this one final chance," Grant said, "and felt he could grab it. If the shoe was on the other foot, we might have done the same."

"I've never seen anything like it before."

"We don't end this now, we might see it again," Grant replied. "It's finished this week or they could regroup across the Potomac and hang on for years."

Phil, still holding his coffee with trembling hands, looked over at Grant.

"I want pressure put on him."

"With what, sir? My corps is gone, McPherson's, Ord's. Sir, I never thought I'd admit something like this, but the army is fought out."

"I'm not talking a full-scale attack," Grant replied. "Even if I wanted to, the men are finished, at least for today. But we still must find a way to keep pressure on Lee, no matter what."

He looked away from Phil.

In one sense Phil was right. The Army of the Susquehanna was indeed fought out. Three out of the four corps that had marched with hi
m only days ago were hollow, burn
ed-out wrecks. McPherson's had taken the worst of it. Down to less than fifty percent after the first day, more than half of those surviving becoming casualties in repulsing Lee's final charge.

Yet, was it not at least as bad or even worse on the other side of Monocacy Creek this morning? Ord in his sacrifice had all but destroyed Early and part of another division. Phil's stand in what all now called the Hornets Nest had shattered Robertson, one of Lee's elite divisions, and savaged parts of two other divisions. Of the three divisions Lee had launched in the charge against Frederick, at least half of those men still littered the fields.

Grant had gone back into the town shortly before dawn. The grisly task of dragging out the Confederate dead was still going on. Fourth Street, for two blocks, was unlike anything he had ever seen, and he prayed he would never see the like again.

Every house in the town was a hospital or a morgue. Several hundred of his men, and all the available civilians, were already at work at the edge of town, digging mass graves.

In one frightful case, a woman had discovered her own out in the street, her husband and son, both with a Confederate regiment. She dragged them into her house and was found a half hour later in her bedroom, having hanged herself.

An argument had ensued when the men who discovered her and found her suicide note had gently removed her body, found the bodies of her husband and son in the parlor, and carried them out to be buried together. A town minister presiding over the burials refused to bury her in what he said was consecrated ground. One of the soldiers leveled a revolver on him, and the service continued.

It was the talk of the men this morning. Strange how one such tragedy became a metaphor for all the madness and tragedies. A delegation of citizens had sought Grant out, demanding that the soldier be found and arrested for having threatened a man of the cloth. He said he would. He watched them leave, and did nothing. The soldier who drew the revolver was right; she was a casualty of this war the same as her husband and son.

He had received word Ord was a prisoner; more than half of his division and brigade commanders were dead or wounded, but this army still had to fight. That had always been the mistake of the Army of the Potomac in the past. The Army of the Potomac had fought battles but had never been able to sustain a campaign. A battle can go on for a few very hard, bitter days, but then it dies out from sheer exhaustion. A campaign is not just one day, or two, or three
...
a
campaign is a continuum until either one side or the other can no longer stand up
...
and he still had enough men standing to press the issue. Battles had proven they were indecisive and could not end the war. But a campaign pressed home with sufficient resolve just might get the job done and end the killing once and for all.

Phil finished his cup of coffee, and an enlisted man came up, offering him a plate with some fried salt pork. Phil paled and shook his head.

"I need you to keep the pressure on Lee," Grant said again.

"I realize that, sir," Phil finally replied. "I can still muster maybe three thousand out of the Ninth Corps."

"What's left of Ord's is in your hands as well," Grant said. "Yes, sir."

Grant had essentially promoted him again at this moment, but Phil showed no reaction.

"Hunt is resupplying the guns he has left; they will resume their old position and bombard the line. If an opening develops, we push it. We also captured ten of their guns, Napoleons. Hunt is incorporating them into his command. Call on him if you need close-in support."

Phil said nothing, finally put his cup down, and saluted. "I better get back to the men I have left," he said and walked off. "Sir?" It was Ely. "Yes?"

"Sir, I have some returns," he said quietly. He held up a sheaf of papers in his hand. "Just tell me," Grant said.

"Sir, we might have upward of twenty-five thousand casualties for the last three days."

"What I figured," Grant replied, looking over at Ely.

The men of his staff were all silent. Nearly half their own men had fallen in the melee yesterday; all were in shock at the horrific losses. He wondered at this moment whether Ely, in presenting the returns, was offering a suggestion, that it was time to break off the fight.

Grant turned and looked at him.

"How many do you think Lee lost?" he asked.

"I'd judge as many or more. The Hornets Nest, we might have lost more than them, but it absolutely shattered Robertson's command. It was up here, though, that Lee was really pounded. The estimate is we lost somewhere around three thousand repulsing the attack; estimates are he might have lost eight to ten thousand."

Grant could not speak.

He did not want to say more. If he dwelled too long on just how much suffering had been created, and, yes, created by his own hand, he'd break. There was many a bottle to be found in town. It would be easy enough to say no fighting today, to find a bottle, get good and drunk, and try to get some sleep.

He sighed, pulling his hat brim low against the steady drizzle.

"Push him," he finally said. "I'm taking over Banks's Corps personally. After Sheridan feels better, I'll cut orders for him to consolidate his command with that of Ord while I incorporate McPherson in with Banks. That should give us
two light corps for maneuver. No one is fit to move today, but I want Lee to know we are still here." "Yes, sir," Ely replied quietly.

"Look, Major Parker," Grant said softly, so quietly only Ely could hear. "The question now is simply this: Who will decide to quit? I can turn this army around today and retire over the mountains, and every man in it will then believe that we were fought to a standstill and lost.

"But if I stand this ground, if we continue to stare Lee in the face, if tomorrow we advance, those same men will march believing they have achieved victory. Yes, a victory bought at a terrible cost, but victory nevertheless, and they will march and fight as victors. If we stand and then move forward while Lee is forced to retreat, his men will reach the opposite conclusion, and they will withdraw from Frederick as a defeated force. That, in its simplicity, is often the essence of war. That will set the groundwork for the next step in this campaign."

Ely said nothing. Grant was slightly embarrassed that he had felt it necessary to explain himself.

"Go about your duties."

"Yes, sir."

"Ely, is the telegraph connection back up?" "No, sir." "Why not?"

"The telegraph wagon for headquarters was smashed in the fighting. The wire from town to halfway up the pass was cut in hundreds of places. Several hours ago, when I realized how long it would take to get service back up, I did send a courier back with news to Hagerstown."

"I wish you had done that sooner," Grant said, and there was a slight note of chastisement in his voice. "The president must be worried sick by now. Besides, our other commands must have clear news of what happened here."

"Sorry, sir," Ely replied. "It's just that with all that had to be done, I let it slip. I'm sorry."

"Too late now. How long for another telegraph wagon to get up?"

"It should be here by late morning. Ten miles of wire are to be brought up." "Thank you, Ely." "Sir."

He stood silent, hands in pocket, and wondered what was being said in Washington now. Was Sykes continuing to advance, or had something gone wrong there? Were the fortifications at the fords strong enough to hold if Lee should turn that way? As he looked across the
rain-soaked battl
efield, he felt that never in his life had he been so lonely as now.

9:00 A.M.

G
eneral Lee rode across the field parallel to the road down to Hauling Ferry. It had been a hard choice, one he had agonized over ever since rising shortly after midnight.

Upon awaking, his first temptation was to reverse his decision and keep the army in place for the day, to see if Grant just might counterattack.

But the realization that his rear was now threatened had settled the question. Jeb had come to h
im shortl
y after one in the morning with a report that Yankee cavalry was astride the Baltimore and Ohio, nearly cutting Armistead off. Behind the cavalry it was believed additional Yankee infantry was moving, possibly only the militia that had fooled them a week ago into thinking Grant was coming due south, but fresh troops, nevertheless.

Lee could sense that a vise was beginning to close.
If I wait, Grant will indeed wait in response until I'm hit from the rear.

His hand forced by events, he and his men, the veterans of Hood's and Beauregard's Corps, had set out before dawn. Hood had indeed lost his arm and was out of the fight. Beauregard was now complaining that he was sick and could not move.

Ahead, skirmishing began to flare, Jenkins's cavalry, probing down the road to Hauling Ferry.

The men marching on the road, as he gazed over at them, filled his his heart with anguish. They were what was left of Beauregard's two divisions in the attack. Their ranks were painfully thin, around more than one regimental flag barely fifty men now marched. They were numbed, shocked, shuffling through the mud, heads bent low. He thought of but two weeks before, the march north from Washington, toward Gunpowder River. Though the heat was terrible they were at a floodtide of youth, of enthusiasm, of belief in victory, heads held high as they marched forward.

And now this.

One more fight, that is all I need out of them this day. One more fight. Surely they will rally to that if I lead them. Secure the crossing, Longstreet comes down tonight slipping out of the trap, and we are across the river. From there all things again become possible.
Though Grant was not driven from the field, Lee still believed he had beaten him.
If I have lost my offensive power, so has he. He came on arrogantly, but if allowed to stay in command, he will never do so again.

The Yankees will have to reorganize, recruit, and how can they recruit after three such stunning blows delivered against them in less than two months? Surely Lincoln will collapse now or at worst they will stop on the banks of the Potomac and wait till spring. Time enough for the wounded to heal, the ranks to be replenished, perhaps France still to come in and break the blockade.

We can still win this
,
he whispered to himself, even as he rode toward the distant rattle of gunfire coming from the Potomac crossing.

The Road to
Hauling Ferry, near Buckeystow
n Ford
10:00
A.M.

W
hen the column stopped again, Cruickshank rode wearily forward. The road was getting muddy and one of the huge wagons had skidded off to one side, a wheel sinking into a culvert. The dozen mules hooked to the wagon were clawing at the ground and braying as the driver, swearing furiously, lashed at them.

"Stop it," Cruickshank said, his voice barely above a whisper, having long since shouted himself hoarse.

"Goddamn stupid bastards," the driver shouted. "Hate goddamn mules."

"Lashing them won't change it," Cruickshank replied. He felt little pity for the beasts; years out west before the war had burned mat sentiment out of him, but still, the poor animals in the traces now were straining, the wagon not moving. Behind them twenty more wagons with their load of pontoon bridging were backed up for almost a half mile.