Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03

by Newt Gingrich; William R Forstchen

So McPherson, at best, had carried nine or ten thousand into the fight and Lee had twenty perhaps twenty five thousand down there closing in. Yes, McPherson was the bait, but now he needed a solid line to hang on to him.

  He turned and looked to the west. Only now did Grant see the head of Burnside's column coming over the South Mountains, and the sight filled him with rage. Those men should be up here now, forming up just behind the slope, and ready to sweep forward in mass to catch Lee off guard. He wondered if Lee had realized that. He had conceded the heights too easily. Even as I set the bait, was Lee urging me to cast it in ?

  No. Never think that. Do that and I start to become like all the others who faced Lee, worrying more about him than what my own plans are.

  "I think that's General Sheridan coming up," Ely announced, pointing to the west.

  Indeed he was—coming on hard, lashing his mount, Rienzi, up the final steep slope.

  "Damn that man," Sheridan shouted, even as he reined in.

  "Burnside?"

  "Exactly. Says he can't possibly push his men any faster."

  Grant looked back to the boiling cauldron of battle down below, Sheridan falling silent by his side.

  "My God," Sheridan said, "what a fight."

  "It is. I sent McPherson down there to hold Lee in place. If we had dug in here, Lee never would have sought battle and perhaps slipped off."

  Grant turned to Sheridan. "I will not leave McPherson down there to be slaughtered. I need Ninth Corps and I need Hunt's guns. We've sucked Lee in and a good counterblow right now would hurt him."

  Sheridan did not reply.

  "He's got his colored division in the lead, sir. What about that?"

  "I don't care which division he's got in the lead. I want them into this fight before nightfall!"

  Grant looked around at his silent staff. Ely gazed at him and simply nodded, as if reading his mind.

  "General Sheridan. You are to take command of Ninth Corps." Even as he spoke he motioned for Ely to write out the authorization. "Relieve Burnside of command on the spot. Tell him he can report to me tomorrow for reassignment. You will take command of the corps and push them forward with all possible speed. Any division or brigade commander who fails in doing that, relieve them on the spot and find someone who can do the job. Send word back to Hunt to push forward even if it takes all night. If we can save McPherson, Lee will surely hang on for a rematch tomorrow, and we need guns in position to meet him. Do you understand your orders?"

  "Yes, sir!" Sheridan said with a grin.

  Ely finished writing the dispatch, tore the sheet off, and handed it to Grant who scanned it, then signed the document relieving Burnside.

  Sheridan snatched it, turned, and, with staff trailing, set off at a gallop.

  Frederick 6:00 P.M.

  General, they're hitting us from the north!" James McPherson turned to look as a courier came riding in from the north side of town. "Full division. Robertson's I'm told. Hood's old command."

  "Good," McPherson said with a grin. "The more the merrier."

  "Our boys are falling back. They can't hold."

  "Then go back there and.tell them to get into the houses, hunker down, and, damn them, hold. We've got to hold!"

  All around him was blazing wreckage. The pleasant town of Frederick had become a battlefield much like Fredericksburg the year before. The entire western end of the town was afire, flames leaping from building to building on the westerly breeze that had sprung up. There was a touch of coolness in the air and he looked up at the dark clouds gathering on the other side of the mountain, filled with the promise of an evening thunderstorm.

  It was always said that a battle brought rain, and it was hard to tell at this moment whether the thunder rolled from the heavens, the incessant rifle fire in the center of town, or the burst of artillery streaking through the streets.

  Monocacy Junction 6:20 P.M.

  Lee stirred anxiously, sipping a cup of coffee, leaning against a fence rail, looking toward the town wreathed in smoke. It sickened his heart to see a church spire collapse in flames, and he whispered a silent prayer that if it was being used as a hospital that those within had been evacuated.

  He looked back at the bridge. All the fires were out hours ago, and hundreds of men were now at work. Men were tearing up track from the spur line, bringing it down, along with the ties. A crew of men were tearing at the timbers of a barn, dismantling it piece by piece to get at the precious beams, which would then be dragged down and slung into place to provide bridge supports. A captain with Stuart, who had worked on this same line before the war, said he could get a bridge in place for at least one track by late tomorrow and was now running the job.

  Robertson's boys were going in. The volume of fire on the north side of town was clear evidence of that. Now if only Johnson's division was up, he could make a clean sweep of it, envelop McPherson from the left, and close the trap. But the latest dispatches from Baltimore indicated Johnson's men were still on the rail line, twenty miles back.

  Longstreet and Beauregard were reporting good marching on the roads, but were still a day away, and his artillery reserve, so dependent on the railroad, had not yet left Baltimore.

  This was unlike any battle he had ever fought. He had hoped, when first he grasped Grant's maneuver, that he could catch him by surprise here, at the base of the Catoctins, tear apart one, perhaps two, of his corps, and then chase him down and finish him. He had placed too much reliance on the railroads, and now it was telling.

  He finished his coffee, set the cup down, and walked over to his staff, who were hurriedly eating while standing about the smoking ruins of the depot, watching the work crews scrambling about the wreckage of the bridge.

  "Gentlemen, I think we should go into the fight," Lee said.

  Several looked at him with surprise. It was obvious they had assumed that after the long day he would establish his headquarters here for the night.

  "General, let me go forward," Stuart said. "My boys are blocking that Yankee brigade on the south side of town. I can manage things."

  "No, I want to see how Robertson is doing," Lee announced.

  Everyone knew better than to argue with him. An orderly brought up Traveler. He mounted and headed into the cauldron, staff following anxiously.

  The White House 6:00 P.M.

  Lincoln ate alone; his servant Jim Bartlett had delivered a tray with a few slices of fried ham, some potatoes, and coffee to his office. Finishing his meal he stood up to stretch, the sound of his chair scraping on the floor amounting to a signal. Jim politely tapped x>n the door. "Come on in."

  "Sir, should I clear your tray?" Jim asked. "Thank you," Lincoln replied.

  Lincoln had gone to the window. Crowds had gathered in Lafayette Park, with troops ringing the White House. Lincoln suddenly turned. "Jim, a question." "Anything, sir."

  "The colored of Washington. I know this might sound like a strange question. But with all the news of the last few days, what do you hear?"

  "Well, sir, I've spent most of my time here in the White House, but I do hear talk with the staff."

  "And that is?"

  "Frustration, sir."

  "Frustration? Over what?"

  Jim stood holding the tray and Lincoln motioned for him to put it down.

  "Jim, let's talk frankly. I need to hear what you have to say. This war is your war, too."

  "Precisely why so many are frustrated. They want to be in on it."

  "What about volunteering for the Colored Troops."

  "Sir, both my son and grandson are already with them."

  Lincoln sensed the slightest of defensive notes in Jim's voice, as if the president had implied that those who were frustrated should join the army.

  "I meant no insult, Jim, and yes, I am proud of the service of your son and grandson."

  "Sir, so many men here are working folk with large families to support. Day laborers, men who work the rail yards, the canal docks. They can't afford to go off fo
r twelve dollars a month the way some can like my son. But still they feel it's their war."

  Lincoln took this in and nodded.

  "Perhaps a way can be found for them to volunteer for short-term service," Lincoln said offhandedly. Jim suddenly smiled.

  "Can I take that as a request, sir?" Jim asked. "To talk with folks and see if there'd be some interest in that."

  "By all means," Lincoln said absently, and then, lost in thought, he returned to looking out the window.

  Frederick 6:45 P.M.

  Sergeant Hazner ducked down as a spray of shot slammed through the window. It had been fired from across the street. He leaned back up, drew a quick bead on the half dozen Yankees leaning out of the windows on the opposite side of the street, fired, and saw one drop.

  He ducked down, motioning for one of his men to hand over a loaded musket. The photographer, long since giving up his quest for a photograph, was on the floor moaning with fear.

  The stench in the room was dizzying, the air thick with ether. Bottles of chemicals had been shattered, and to the photographer's horror, several of the glass plates, including the precious one of Lee astride Traveler, watching the fight, had been blown apart, bits of glass sprayed across the room.

  "Want a picture now?" Hazner shouted.

  The photographer simply shook his head.

  Hazner peeked up, caught a glimpse of several Yankees running across the street toward his building, fired, but wasn't sure if he'd hit one.

  Below, he heard the door slam open, shouts.

  "Come on, boys," Hazner shouted, standing up and running for the doorway. Of the six he had led in, only three were still standing. They followed him out. He hit the staircase, ducking as the two men below aimed and fired, plaster flying.

  Hazner leapt down the stairs, bayonet poised. One man parried the strike, another edging around to swing a clubbed musket at him.

  He countered the parry, bayoneting the man before him, ducking under the blow. One of his own men behind him shot the man with the clubbed musket, shattering his skull. The two others fell back, running out the doorway.

  Panting, Hazner looked down at the man he had just killed. Damn, just a boy. Rawboned, uniform of dark blue, weather-stained, threadbare, patches on his knees, shoes in tatters.

  Damn near look like us, he thought sadly.

  He grabbed one of his men.

  "Sit at the top of the stairs, shoot anyone who comes through that door."

  The man nodded and Hazner went upstairs, ducking low, crawling to the window.

  Frederick 7:00 P.M.

  “Sir, I think we must pull back!" McPherson ignored his staff officer. The entire west end of the town was ablaze. In places Union and Confederate wounded were helping each other to get out of buildings. Hundreds of his men were streaming to the rear, limping, cradling broken arms, slowly carrying makeshift litters with wounded comrades curled up on them. A hysterical officer staggered past him, crying about losing his flag.

  From the north side of town a steady shower of shot was raining down. Looking up a side street he saw men of his Second Division giving back, running down the street, shouting that the rebs were right behind them.

  He had never fought a battle like this. Always it had been in open fields or a tangle of woods and bayous. Here it was impossible to tell anymore who was winning or losing. If he had been sent down here by Grant to be the bait, he had most certainly succeeded in his task. He was being hammered from three directions by two full Confederate divisions and at least a brigade or more of cavalry.

  Down the street, several hundred yards away, a fireball went up, brilliant in the early evening sky. Across the street a pillared building was burning, dozens of men coming out of it, carrying wounded, and he shouted for his staff officers to find some additional men to help evacuate the wounded.

  For a moment he was tempted to somehow try to arrange a cease-fire, to ask Lee to stop fighting for one hour. The town was burning; thousands of wounded were trapped in buildings, and they needed to be taken out.

  But how? A fight in a town like this was utter confusion. Rebs might hold a block, a building, while across the street his boys were holding on. In several places, columns of troops advancing had turned a comer, only to collide with their foes, with the fight degenerating into a vicious street brawl until one side or the other pulled back.

  "Sir, for Cod's sake, let's pull back."

  He turned on the man, shouting the advance.

  "No, sir. We go forward. Grant will bring up Burnside and we are going to hold this town!"

  Frederick 7:15 P.M.

  General Robertson!" Lee rode to Robertson's side, his division commander saluting. "How goes it, sir?"

  Robertson shook his head and looked up at the darkening sky, now streaked with lightning.

  "Sir, it's chaos in that town. Can't keep any control or command of troops. Its street by street, and those Yankees just won't give up. Frankly, sir, I can't tell you what is going on."

  "Are we driving them?"

  "Yes, sir," Robertson said, "but it isn't like any fight we've been in before. Hard to tell in a town like that. The men we're facing aren't like the Army of the Potomac. Never seen anyone try to hold a town like this before."

  He pointed toward Frederick, the city ablaze, driving back the approaching darkness. It looked to Lee like something out of the Bible, apocalyptic, the air reverberating with thunder, explosions, the crackle of rifle fire.

  "Drive them! Keep driving them," Lee shouted. "I want those Federals in there taken. Tonight."

  "We'll try, sir."

  Lee spurred his mount, going forward into the fight.

  Frederick 7:20 PM.

  Sgt. Maj. Lee Robinson, First Texas, Hood^s old Texan brigade, was at the head of the column, not carrying the colors for the moment, instead directing his men to keep moving, to drive to the center of the town regardless of loss.

  Yankee snipers were at a score of windows, shooting down. He urged his own on as ordered. If they got tangled up in a building by building fight all semblance of order would vanish. The orders were to seize the center of town, and that was only one block ahead.

  "Keep moving, keep moving!"

  Frederick

  7.21pm

  “This way!" McPherson shouted.

  Leading part of an Illinois regiment, McPherson pointed the way straight into the center of town. Two of his staff had dropped in the last block and a dozen men of the Illinois regiment. The center of the town, he thought. Hold that intersection and we can hang on awhile longer.

  "Come on boys, come on!" He spurred his mount ahead.

  Sergeant Hazner leaned up on the windowsill. If not for the spreading fires it would have been impossible to see a target. He saw the column, an officer on horseback, rose up to shoot, and a volley from across the street drove him back down.

  Sergeant Robinson stopped dead in his tracks, stunned as a Yankee officer, alone, came around the corner on horseback. His own men staggered to a halt, the column around him confused for a brief instant, then raising their weapons up.

  Robinson, rifle poised, aimed straight at the officer. He was less than ten feet away.

  "For God's sake," Robinson shouted, "surrender!" The officer looked straight at him, grinned, offered a salute, and then started to turn as if to ride away.

  Robinson shot him, feeling as if it was murder. The man jerked upright, swayed, and then tumbled from his mount.

  A few seconds later Yankee infantry appeared, and at the sight of the downed officer a wild shout of rage rose up from them and they lunged forward.

  Robinson's Texans deployed, delivered a volley at point-blank range, and charged in with bayonet. A frightful melee ensued.

  "McPherson! McPherson!" the cry went up among the Yankees, even as the Texans waded in, clubbing and lunging.

  Within seconds the Union troops broke and fell back, driven around the corner by the advancing Texans.

  Robinson, however, stopped,
and knelt down by the Union officer, who was still alive.

  "Sir, why didn't you just surrender?" he asked.

  "Not in my nature," McPherson gasped. "Could you do me a favor, soldier. Can't breathe. Help me sit up."

  Robinson set his rifle down and propped McPherson up against the side of the building. McPherson coughed, clearing his lungs, blood foaming from his lips. "Thank you."

  "Sergeant?"

  Robinson looked up and was stunned to see General Lee approaching, oblivious to the battle raging around him, staff nervously drawn in close in a protective ring.

  More troops of Hood's old Texas brigade were running past, going into the fight.

  "Who is that, Sergeant?" Lee asked.

  Robinson looked at the man's shoulders.

  "A major general, sir."

  Walter took the reins of Traveler as Lee dismounted and stepped up to the two. Robinson, not sure whether he should come to attention, decided to continue to help the wounded officer and kept him braced against the wall.

  "Oh, God," Lee sighed, "James."

  McPherson opened his eyes.

  "General, sir. Sorry we had to meet again like this."

  Lee knelt by his side and took his hand.

  "James. Dear God, James, I'm so sorry."

  "Fortunes of war, General. Remember old Alfred T. Mahan always talked about that, the chances of war."

  Robinson did not know what to do. Should he draw back, stay to help the Union general, or rejoin his command?

  The sergeant looked over at Lee.

  "I'm sorry, sir," he said, voice near to breaking. "I asked him to surrender, but he wouldn't. I'm sorry, sir." His voice trailed off.

  "Not your fault, Sergeant," McPherson whispered. "Did your duty. Foolish of me, actually. Don't blame yourself."

  Robinson found himself looking up into Lee's eyes, and was filled with anguish.

  "I'm sorry, sir."

  Lee shook his head.

  "No, Sergeant. War, contemptible war, did it." Lee looked back at McPherson. "Are you sorely hurt, James?"

  McPherson nodded. "Can't seem to breathe." Blood was spilling out from just under his armpit, trickling down from his lips and nostrils. "General?"

  Lee looked up. It was Walter.

  "Sir, it isn't safe for you here. Word is more Yankees are coming into the town. Sir, you must move!"