The fire from the other side began to slacken and then stopped.
"Everyone load, hold fire," Brown shouted.
It was obvious something was building. They were going to try another charge.
A distant hoarse cheer, the Yankee "huzzahs" given three times, rolled up the hill.
A staff officer, this one mounted, came through the woods toward the Fourteenth, Brown standing up to meet him, but making it a point to keep a tree between him and the Yankees.
"Column coming up the road. Enfilade it, but then you are to pull back."
"Fall back?" Brown asked, obviously confused. "Hell, sir, just get me some more ammunition and some water. We'll hold."
"Orders from General Lee himself. He doesn't want this division torn apart. We're pulling back into Frederick. Rally your men in the center of town."
The officer turned without waiting for a reply and rode to the north, toward the next regiment in line.
Brown turned. "You heard him boys. We're pulling back. Wounded who can walk, start moving now."
A couple of dozen men who had been resting just behind the volley line struggled to their feet and began staggering back. Those who could not move looked toward Brown beseechingly.
"Sorry, boys," Brown said sadly. "We got to leave you. Don't worry. The Yankees will take good care of you."
"Yeah, right," one of them hissed. "Point Lookout for us if we live."
"Here it comes!" someone shouted.
Hazner turned and saw the head of a column coming up the road. At the same moment the regiment they'd been facing across the orchard stood up and came out into the open, advancing at the double.
'Take aim straight ahead, boys," Brown shouted.
Hazner agreed. To hell with the column. It was the men they were facing they had to worry about.
"Fire!"
A ragged volley swept the orchard, dropping another dozen, but this time the Yankees did not slow; they just kept on coming.
"Fall back, men, stay with me!"
The Fourteenth moved woodenly at first. After the long march, the bitter fight, they were exhausted. Behind them the Yankees, sensing the breaking of their opponents, let out a cheer, and seconds later a volley ripped through the woods, the Fourteenth losing a half dozen more.
Hazner reached the crest of the ridge. Along the road to his right he could see where troops were falling back, cavairy mounting up, infantry pushing around them. A thunderous fire erupted from the road, a sharp volley sent into the advancing column, and then those men turned and started to run.
Over the crest, Hazner, falling in by Brown's side, started down the slope. It was steep and he ran like a drunken man, nearly tumbling over, men around him cursing, panting, some tangling up in the brush and falling, getting up again.
Behind them he could hear taunting yells. Looking back, he saw where the Yankees had gained the ridge. Some were pushing on, others stopping to reload.
Ahead and below the town of Frederick was two miles off. Beyond, he could see smoke cloaking the river valley and a distant column of troops moving along the National Road.
Brown staggered and tripped, cursing as he hit the ground. Hazner pulled him up, the colonel's hands badly skinned from the tumble.
"Come on, sir," Hazner cried, "but by damn, there better be a good reason for this."
Braddock Heights 3:50 P.M.
McPherson!"
James was atop the crest, glasses raised, studying the ground ahead. A half mile downslope he could see where the rebels were swarming along the road and fields, heading back toward Frederick. Beyond the river he could already spot another column coming up.
Grant came to his side, grinning.
"Good work, McPherson."
"Cost us," James said quietly. "We fought entire battles out west and lost fewer men than I just did taking this ridge."
"It's only started," Grant replied coolly. "Are you pressing them?"
"My boys are exhausted, sir. I've double-timed them for miles, threw them into this fight. They need a few minutes at least. We got the good ground now. Isn't that what we wanted?"
Grant was silent for a moment, field glasses raised, studying the terrain ahead.
'That bridge is out of artillery range from up here. We give Lee time, he just might get it back up again. Besides, if we sit up here, he will not come at us."
McPherson looked over at him.
"We just had a meeting engagement up here, both sides equally tired. If we dig in here tonight, what will Lee do tomorrow? Attack?"
McPherson found he had to agree.
"No, sir, of course not."
"I want him to fight us. We've got to grab hold of him and stay in contact. I don't want him to have time to think, to maneuver, to repair that bridge, to think about the Potomac River at all. We give him good bait, though, and he'll bite it and then hang on to us the way I want."
"And that means my corps, sir, doesn't it?"
Grant grabbed him by the forearm.
"You know what to do. But you, personally, don't go doing anything foolish. Push down there and grab hold of Lee. I'm setting up here for the moment. Give your boys twenty minutes to catch their breath, try and find some water, then send them in. I want that town and the river beyond."
McPherson knew without even having to ask what Grant was ordering him to do. To stick his corps out forward and let Lee bite into them. He thought of all the quiet afternoons he had spent with Lee at West Point, the admiration he had always held for him. He wondered if Lee knew whose corps this was that was about to come down to meet him. It was going to be one hell of a bloody mess this day.
McPherson saluted and rode off.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Frederick, MD 4:15 P.M.
Good heavens, sir, they're coming down." Lee said nothing, sitting astride Traveler at the edge of the city, looking up at the Catoctin Heights. Yes, indeed, McPherson was coming down, battle lines deployed out a quarter mile to either side of the National Road. Flags flying, regiments came down the steep slope, skirmishers to the fore. It was a grand sight. All about him stopped to look. The battle line was studded with national flags and state flags, and he found a swelling of admiration within himself. His star student from the West Point days was doing a remarkable job. Despite himself, he was proud of him as a mentor might be of a cherished younger person.
A half-mile front, late afternoon sun behind them, bayonets flashing, disciplined in their advance even on such difficult ground.
"Half a league, half a league, half a league onward," Walter whispered.
Lee nodded in agreement. These were brave men indeed. Brave and foolish. They had taken the bait. McPherson has courage but he is going to give us an opportunity to defeat him in isolation before Grant can arrive.
"Walter, tell Robertson he must come up. Scales is to hold the town as we talked about. We'll fight them street by street if need be. I want their entire corps pulled into this fight."
"Yes, sir!" Walter galloped off.
Lee turned about and rode into the center of town, General Scales by his side. Regiments were still forming up after their retreat off of the ridge; men gathered around wells, filling canteens; wounded being carried into churches and homes; citizens standing silent, watching, looking up at the heights, worrying that their homes would be destroyed if Frederick became a battlefield.
"General Scales, get your provost guards out and order these civilians into their basements. There's going to be a fight here, and I wish to avoid injury to them."
"Yes, sir. So we hold the town, sir?"
"I want to pull McPherson in here. Yes, you will hold the town. Grant has done what I hoped. If he had sat up on those heights, he could have waited for days, concentrated, or perhaps even shielded us from a maneuver down into the northern Shenandoah. Now he will be forced to come on in support of McPherson. We have an opportunity to defeat his army in detail, one corps at a time."
Lee looked to the east.
; "Robertson should be up in a few hours by train and will roll in from the north and smash, McPherson. If Grant is so impetuous, he'll then funnel more men in and we will smash them in turn. By this time tomorrow the rest of our army will be concentrated here, but we will have taken out a quarter, perhaps a half of his army. Then he shall dance to our tune. He will learn that the East is a more dangerous place than his Western campaigns prepared him for."
Two Miles East of Monocacy function
4.25pm
Cursing soundly at the engineer of his train General Robertson rode past the hissing engine. It had taken them six hours to come up from Baltimore, rather than the two promised to them back in the rail yard. Two locomotives had broken down, one of them obviously sabotaged with a hole punched into a cylinder and then plugged with tallow and hemp that had finally blown out. It had forced his entire convoy to shift tracks, then shift back again, to get around the stalled engine, leaving two regiments behind. The scene just east of the river was chaos. Dozens of trains were backed up, the ones that had brought up Scales waiting to begin a backward shuttle all the way to Relay Junction before being able to turn around. The pontoon bridges were parked to one side, blocking the westbound track, and straight ahead was the wreck that he had heard almost killed General Lee.
On the way up they had passed Longstreet's Corps, marching on the National Road, fifteen miles out of Baltimore but still a good day and a half away from the spreading battle at Frederick.
He turned and looked back. His men were piling off the boxcars, passenger cars, flatcars, and even coal hoppers pressed into service for this troop movement. The men were forming up into columns of march, beginning to surge forward on either side of the tracks.
"Keep 'em moving!" Robertson shouted. "Boys, General Lee needs us. Now keep moving!"
Braddock Heights 4:30 P.M.
General McPherson spared a final glance back at the South Mountain range, five miles away. The valley between him and the distant ridge was empty. No troops were coming up.
Where in heavens name was Ninth Corps? They should already be over the crest, flooding in to support him.
But orders were orders and he knew what Grant wanted—to hold Lee in place here' while he cast his net wide. If only the rebs had come on again. Holding this ridge he could have pounded away at them all day. His reserve ammunition trains were coming up the slope, along with a battery of three-inch rifles, the only battery Grant had allotted to him. But he understood his orders, the mission Grant wanted, and that he was now a pawn, or perhaps a knight, ventured out into the middle of the board.
Downslope, a mile away, skirmish fire was erupting, reb infantry and cavalry falling back into the town. He looked around at his staff.
"A moment of prayer, gentlemen," he said softly, and removed his hat.
Lowering his head he silently commended his soul to God, asking for a blessing upon his men who this day might fall. All were silent.
"Let's go," he said, his voice matter-of-fact, as if they were out for an afternoon's ride down into a friendly village to visit old friends.
He raised his field glasses one last time, looking to the far horizon. It should be possible on a clear day to see the church spires of Baltimore. So close to Emily, and yet so far. Battle smoke obscured the view. He lowered his glasses and cased them.
General McPherson and his staff set off down the road to Frederick.
Frederick 4:45 P.M.
Sergeant Hazner raced up the steps to the top floor of the building and flung a door open. He stopped for a few seconds in amazement. It was a photographer's studio, the owner, a dyspeptic-looking frail gentleman gazing at him with surprise, the air thick with the odor of ether and other chemicals.
"Sir, might I suggest you go to the basement," Hazner said, stepping back from the doorway and then directing the half dozen men with him to take positions by the windows.
One of the men started to smash the window panes with the butt of his rifle and the photographer shouted a protest.
"Please just open them," Hazner said. "Let's not get carried away."
He had to laugh inside at this little point of etiquette. If what was about to happen, did happen, this place would be a shambles in fairly short order.
The men did as ordered and Hazner walked over to the table the photographer had set up in one side of the room. A number of wet collodion plates were lying on black felt, others were hanging up, drying. Hazner studied them for a few seconds. Some were just blurs, but a few were really quite remarkable, a blurred column of men moving up the road just below, but there, in a different picture, remaining stock-still at the main intersection of the town, was General Lee on Traveler, General Scales by his side. Another photograph showed the Catoctin Heights wreathed in smoke, blurred columns moving up the National Road, and in the foreground General Lee with field glasses raised, looking up at the battle.
"So you've been busy today?" Hazner asked.
"Quite so! A dozen images, many of the battle itself. Quite extraordinary. I hope to get more," and he pointed to the camera on the far side of the room.
"Could I convince you gentlemen to pose for me right now?"
Several of Hazner's men looked at him, grinning. He was almost tempted, but then shook his head.
"Sir, I don't think you realize how dangerous it will be here in a few minutes. Please go to your basement."
"You can't force me," the photographer said loudly. "Good heavens, man, no one has ever photographed a battle before, and I plan to do so today."
Hazner shook his head.
"Just be careful, sir," he said, nodded to his men, and then ran down the stairs and out into the main street.
The last of the Confederate infantry were disappearing into buildings, men running. A block to the west a two-gun section was set up, both pieces firing at the same instant, recoiling, filing the street with roiling clouds of smoke. The guns were hooked to their caissons by trail ropes, the guns being dragged down the street even as their crews worked to reload. They stopped at the main intersection.
"Fire!"
Both guns kicked back, several windowpanes shattering from the blast, the solid shot of the twin Napoleons screaming down the street.
Still hooked to the caissons by twenty feet of rope, the team started to move again.
"Better get off the street there, Sergeant," the section commander shouted. "They're coming on fast!"
Hazner looked up the road, and sure enough, he could see them a half dozen blocks "away, Yankee infantry, running hard, dodging into buildings, rifle fire already erupting from upper-floor windows. A minie ball hummed past him, and then another; a gunner collapsed, holding his arm and cursing, his comrades quickly picking him up and helping him to get up on the caisson.
The crew moved another block. Hazner pressed himself inside the doorway as they fired again, the scream of the shot tearing down the street and slapping him with a shock wave. He peeked out and saw it slash through a file of troops on the street, knockifig them over. More shots came down the street. From the window overhead his men were opening up, leaning out, shooting, ducking back in. It was time to get inside.
He dashed back into the building and up the stairs. The photographer was in the corner of the room, head under a black hood behind the camera, asking if the men would stand still for a moment, but they ignored him. Two of the best shooters were at the windows, the others passing up loaded rifles. Glass was shattering, the room filling with smoke.
Strange, all their other fights had been out in the open. Usually towns were bypassed in a fight. Why Scales had decided to stand here, men broken up into small units, was beyond him. This was going to be one ugly fight.
Hazner settled down by a window, back pressed against the wall, and then leaned over to look out. Swarms of Yankees were coming down the street, men dropping with every step forward, the column breaking up, an officer out front shouting, waving his sword, the formation disintegrating as they broke and ran toward buildin
gs, ducking into doorways. Within seconds the return fire became intense, bullets smacking into windowsills, tearing across brick fronting. Across the street a man tumbled out of a third-floor window, smacking into the pavement with a sickening crunch.
"Gentlemen, just please remain still for fifteen seconds, that's all I ask!"
Hazner ignored the man, raised his rifle, and joined the fight.
Braddock Heights 5:10 P.M.
Grant stood silent, field glasses trained on the town below. It was turning into one hell of a fight. McPherson had waded straight in. Buildings were ablaze, a church
steeple wreathed now in smoke, fire licking up its sides. Beyond, he could see where a large column of infantry was coming over the National Road bridge across the Monocacy, the distant smoke of locomotives barely visible through the haze.
Lee's Second Division was starting to deploy, preparing to sweep into the town from the north side. McPherson had placed his men well. One division was forming to the north to meet the counterthreat, at least another division into the town, and what looked to be a brigade pushing to the south side of the town, fighting what appeared be dismounted cavalry, and steadily moving toward the river.
Now, if only I had more men up, Grant thought. A Confederate division with Lee's army carried almost as much strength as a Union light corps. Though McPherson had fifteen thousand at the start of the day, several thousand at least had fallen out in the forced march. Even now those stragglers were walking past him, small groups, a few men, a couple of dozen being shepherded along by a corporal or a sergeant, more than one stopping to ask one of his staff where the fighting was or where they should go. And always they were directed down the road into Frederick and told to get into the fight.
McPherson had, even by conservative estimates, lost two thousand men taking these heights. Hospitals were already set up on the western slope, the wounded, Union and Confederate alike, being carried in. Grant dared not even to watch that too closely. Unlike many another general, hospitals terrified him, turned his stomach.
Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 Page 22