Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03

by Newt Gingrich; William R Forstchen

  "See, sir, no problem at all." He accepted his cane and leaned heavily on it. Then he limped off.

  "Think he can handle it?" Lincoln asked, looking over at Elihu.

  "If anyone can, it's him. He spent an hour with me yesterday morning, went over the details, and then was down here at the docks all day and clean through the night He knows his job."

  "Fine, then. We made the right choice."

  "Something curious going on you should know about," Elihu said, and motioned to a sidestreet, leading Lincoln as they wove through the columns of troops queuing up to get aboard the canal boats.

  As they turned the corner Lincoln was startled to see hundreds of black men standing about in a crowd, many with shovels, picks, and axes on their shoulders. Others had wheelbarrows loaded down with baggage. Two men had between them a large two-man whipsaw. A scattering of them were armed with old muskets or pistols.

  At their approach the milling crowd fell silent, many of the men taking their hats off, stepping back at Lincoln's approach. To his amazement Lincoln saw Jim Bartlett standing in the crowd—rather, standing out, since he was dressed in a fine suit while most of the men wore the ordinary clothes of laborers.

  "Jim?" Lincoln asked. "May I ask what is going on here?"

  Jim braced his shoulders back, staring Lincoln straight in the eye.

  "Mr. President, remember last night when you asked me to see if men would be interested in volunteering short-term for some work?

  "Well, we know where them boats are going." He nodded toward the canal barges loading up.

  "How do you know that, Jim?"

  With that a number of the men started to chuckle.

  "Ain't no secrets from us colored folk, Mr. Lincoln," a burly worker replied, and that brought on more laughter.

  "Too many of you white folks think we're invisible. We're cleaning the dishes and the missus starts gossiping with other ladies about what her husband just told her, we're sweeping the floor at Willard's and the officers are boasting, or we're emptying trash in the War Office and pieces of paper just come falling into our laps. Oh, we know."

  That brought renewed laughter, and Lincoln could not suppress a grin. He instantly saw the wisdom of it, thinking himself of so many conversations in the White House with servants walking in and out of the room. By heavens, of course they'd know.

  "What are you and your friends proposing, Jim?" Lincoln asked.

  "Our hands, our backs. There are tens of thousands of colored in this city who want to do something, anything. Let us go with the soldiers. We can dig for them, and, sir, we know that's a worry of yours."

  The burly man nudged the man next to him, a thin, frail gentleman with graying hair who stepped forward nervously.

  "Begging your pardon, Mr. Washburne, I hope you ain't mad, but I brought coffee into the room while you and a general were talking. I heard you say something about moving the men, but maybe not having time to dig in proper, building forts and such."

  Washburne looked at the speaker in amazement.

  "You know I oughta fire you," he blustered. "What you overheard is a military secret."

  "Oh, I heard Mr. Stanton talking all the time, a lot of things, sir, maybe you should know about, considering all the fuss he's kicking up in the newspapers."

  Lincoln threw back his head and laughed, a laugh unlike any he had experienced in weeks.

  "He's got you, Elihu. We need this man."

  Elihu shook his head, then leaned out of his saddle and extended his hand.

  "All right then. We'll talk after this is over, but by heavens I'll never speak a word again when you are around."

  The man grinned and took Elihu's hand.

  "We're on the same side, sir. Maybe for different reasons, but the same side."

  "For the same reasons now," Lincoln said quietly, and he looked back at Jim. 'Troops have to have priority on the boats, but wherever there's additional room, you men get aboard."

  A cheer went up.

  Lincoln extended his hand.

  "I should warn you, though. It will be dangerous. I cannot guarantee that you will be treated well if things turn against us and you are captured."

  "Then we fight," Jim said quietly. "A pick or an ax is as good as a bayonet."

  "Not against disciplined troops," Elihu said softly.

  "It'll be hours, most likely, before there will be room on any of the boats," Lincoln said.

  "We already figured that," the burly man said. "We'll just start walking if you don't mind. Follow the canal path."

  Lincoln suddenly was overcome by emotion, his face limp with sadness.

  One of the men held up a banner made out of a bedsheeL Emblazoned in red letters: WASHINGTON COLORED VOLUNTEERS.

  The crowd cheered again and then spontaneously poured down the street, turning on to the canal path to head toward the front. As they surged by him, Lincoln remained motionless.

  Looking back toward the boats, he saw Colonel Shaw leading the men of the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts aboard several barges. Shaw caught his eye and snapped to attention, saluting, his men cheering as they saw their brothers pouring down the street and then turning to follow the canal path.

  "How" the world is changing," Lincoln whispered. He reached over and took Jim's hand.

  "God be with you, my friend."

  "And with you too, Mr. President," he paused, "and thank you."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia East Bank of Monocacy Creek

  August 26 7:00 A.M.

  Gen. Pete Longstreet rode up the steep slope past a wooden blockhouse, pausing for a moment to watch as a gun crew struggled to maneuver a twelve-pound Napoleon through the back doorway, then rolled it into place inside, positioning it at a gun port looking down on the river below.

  The blockhouse was perfectly positioned to cover the ruins of the railroad bridge and the still-smoking wreckage of a rail depot on the other bank, less than four hundred yards away. To either flank of the blockhouse men were digging in, cutting trenches, a work crew dragging cut lumber from the mill just south of the track to pile atop the barricades.

  A scattering of Yankee skirmishers were around the depot on the other side of the creek, but for the moment there seemed to be one of those informal cease-fires between them and the Confederate skirmishers. Many were up, walking about, examining the wreckage, both sides adopting the live-and-let-live attitude of soldiers who were more than willing to fight when called upon, but considered sniping to be little better than murder if there was no immediate purpose to it. Like schoolboys they prowled around the wreckage, coming to the river to examine the bridge and gape down at the two shattered locomotives in the creek. A few had started fires to fix one last pot of coffee before battle was rejoined.

  Even Pete stopped for a minute to look at the ruins. It was obvious there had been one hell of a fight here yesterday. Bark had been peeled off trees by bullets, hunks of metal from the exploding train littered the riverbank, and burial details were at work on both sides of the river, as if clearing the ground for the next harvest, which would begin soon enough.

  "Hey, reb, who's the general?" a Yank with a booming voice shouted from across the river.

  Several of the Confederates down by the bridge looked back and saw Pete.

  "Why, that's old Longstreet!" one of them shouted back. "Now that he's here, there'll be hell to pay for you boys."

  Pete shook his head. A compliment in a way, but the men would be in Yankee headquarters within the hour. Curious, this war: no matter how often the men were lectured on it, skirmishers on both sides tended to gossip and give away secrets, just like old women at a quilting party.

  Pete pressed up the hill to a flat plateau where Lee, Jeb Stuart, Walter Taylor, and John Hood stood, all with field glasses raised, looking toward the distant ridgeline.

  Pete offered a salute as he approached, and Lee, lowering his glasses, smiled.

  "General, good to see you. You
must be exhausted after such a long ride."

  "I'm fine, sir," he lied. He was numb after the twenty-four-hour ride, the anxiety of what was happening ahead, and the frustration he felt as he paralleled the railroad track and saw the colossal traffic jam mat stretched for miles. The hope had been that during the night, once Hood was finished moving his divisions up, the trains could start shuttling troops from his own corps forward, sparing them the rest of the march. That was clearly impossible. Only a few engines were moving, while dozens waited to back up through the single-line track between the two tunnels.

  'Tell me, General, when can we begin to expect your troops?" Lee asked, as Pete dismounted. One of the staff handed him a cup of coffee, which he gladly accepted.

  "I left them during the night, sir. The lead division, McLaw's, should be up by noon."

  "Good. And General Beauregard's Corps?"

  "Behind the rest of my column, sir, but he is also moving on parallel roads, not the National Road. He should start filing in late this afternoon."

  Lee nodded approvingly.

  "How are things here, sir?" Pete asked.

  "Grant is living up to his reputation," Lee said and motioned to the Catoctin Ridge.

  Pete uncased his field glasses and focused on the distant ridge. Though it was wreathed in early morning mist and smoke from the burning town, he was able to catch glimpses of troops moving down the road.

  "Ord we think," Walter interjected.

  "McPherson and Burnside are already accounted for," Lee said. "That only leaves Banks. Scouts with General Stuart reported a number of batteries coming into the town during the night."

  "I heard you really chewed into McPherson yesterday," Pete said.

  "Yes," Lee replied, his voice now barely a whisper. "Sir, I'm sorry. I meant no disrespect to James. He was a good man."

  "He's still alive," Walter said.

  "Will he pull through?"

  Lee shook his head.

  "Again, sir, I'm sorry."

  "It is God's will," Lee said softly.

  "Most-of McPherson's Corps was destroyed yesterday," Walter said. "We briefly tangled with some of Burnside's men last night. Colored troops."

  "Damn all," Hood said coldly.

  Lee turned and looked over at Hood, who lowered his gaze.

  "They are to be treated like any other troops we face,"

  Lee announced. "If taken prisoner, they and their officers are to be shown all due respect, as has been our tradition. I want everyone to understand that." "Yes, sir," Hood said.

  "So that leaves one of Grant's corps unaccounted for," Longstreet said, feeling it best to change the topic. "Banks, supposedly his strongest unit."

  "I suspect he is on the far side of that ridge even now," Lee announced.

  "There's nothing to the north," Stuart said. "My screen is still holding, though there has been some heavy skirmishing with Grierson. The only cavalry unit to break through so far was Custer, and we saw what happened to him yesterday."

  "But he did bum the rail bridge and covered bridge and mauled several regiments in the process," Hotchkiss interjected. "I'd consider that a fair trade."

  "Yes, indeed, a fair trade. And it also fixed this place as the one where this war will be decided, once and for all," Lee announced.

  Pete, sipping his coffee, looked over at Lee.

  "It has to be here," Lee said. "We could have held those heights up there." He pointed to the Catoctin Ridge. "But if we had, Grant would not have taken the bait. The position is simply impregnable, and even Grant would not have attacked us if we had stayed there. He'd have stopped his advance and dug in along South Mountains."

  Lee turned to face his officers.

  "Remember last year. But one of our divisions held that ridge for an entire day while we regrouped at Sharpsburg. The Catoctin Ridge was an even better tactical position, with only one road crossing it versus three at South Mountains."

  "Then, sir, why did you concede it?" Longstreet asked.

  Lee smiled.

  "Because it was too good. If Scales had stayed there, and then been reinforced by Robertson's Division, no force on the face of this earth could have pushed us off. Grant would have remained concealed behind South Mountains, and that would give him time. He could have sat us out for weeks or perhaps pushed down to Harpers Ferry, crossed into Virginia, and thus forced us to follow him. No, when I saw this ground, I wanted him here."

  Lee turned and pointed to the flat open plain between the river and Frederick.

  "They will deploy out there, gentlemen. Our elevation here, according to Jed Hotchkiss, is a good hundred to two hundred feet higher, with excellent fields of fire for our preponderance in artillery. We have the range of hills to our south bordering the river; they can act as a tactical shield if we should wish to maneuver that way. But I think Grant will come straight on."

  "Just like Burnside at Fredericksburg," Hood interjected.

  Lee nodded in agreement.

  "I believe I am getting the measure of Grant. He is tenacious. He pushed McPherson's Corps forward yesterday afternoon to seize the town and perhaps the bridge regardless of the losses. We bloodied him. It is obvious by what we see over there that blood has not deterred him. He has pushed two more corps in, and they will begin to deploy down to the river and then come straight at us. And I say, let them come!"

  He slapped a balled fist against the palm of his hand.

  Longstreet turned to look at the ground. Lee was right. It was indeed ideal ground for a fight. The Monocacy Creek formed a natural barrier to slow any assault. There were numerous fords, and the still-intact stone bridge of the National Road, but each of those fords and the bridge faced, on the east side, excellent ground for artillery, infantry, and observation. Union attacks would have to funnel into those points, and it would be a killing ground. There were also fairly good roads on the east side, running north to south, which could provide for rapid redeployment of troops.

  "Then why will he attack?" Pete asked. "We do hold the better ground here. Not suicidal, as would be the case if we were atop Catoctin Heights, just slightly better ground than those on the west side. But why attack us? Why not wait? I think, sir, if it was us over there, we would definitely not attack."

  "Because he is under pressure, General Longstreet, from Washington. And because everything we know about Grant tells us that he is aggressive and persistent. I think Grant is not a fool like Burnside. When he hits, as he did at the second day of Shiloh, he will come on with everything at once. But he will come on."

  "Only if he thinks he can win, or has a broader plan," Pete said. "I wish Beauregard was here to see this and offer his opinion."

  At this Lee turned to look at Pete with fire in his eyes, a flash of anger even. Pete had seen that look before. So many spoke of the gentleman Lee, the courtly Lee, but when battle loomed, a cold side could come out, even one of anger. That had truly flared to the surface at Union Mills when he fired Dick Ewell from command and sent him home in disgrace.

  When word had first come that Grant was on the move he had seen Lee surprisingly off balance for over a day, pondering, unsure. That was now washed away. He was confident, eager for battle, perhaps too much so.

  "We both want this to end," Lee snapped. "We received a report yesterday that not three days past Lincoln was with Grant up by Carlisle. Lincoln is facing a firestorm back in Washington over his removal of Stanton and the defeats. If Grant cannot win it for them in the next week or two, their government might collapse."

  "Therefore, might not the seizing of Catoctin Heights have been a wise move?" Longstreet ventured. "It would have forced Grant to either make a suicidal attack or maneuver, which would have taken too much time."

  Lee looked at him sharply, and Pete realized he had overstepped his bounds. It was something he could have said to Lee in private, but to second-guess a decision which could no longer be reversed, in front of others, was a major mistake.

  "I apologize, sir," Longstree
t said softly.

  "No offense taken," Lee replied, and his features softened.

  "No, General Longstreet, I want this settled now. We have .lured Grant down out of the pass. Once our guns are up and in place, we can turn that field across the stream into a slaughterhouse. We break him in his attacks, then counter-strike. He'll have only one road out as we converge in. We break him, then unleash Jeb here to finish the job. I dare say that in three days we can annihilate Grant here, push him up over the Catoctin Pass, and what is left we can annihilate in the valley beyond."

  Longstreet said nothing. He could see that the Old Man's fire was up, the same as the first day at Gettysburg, and there was no arguing with him now. It was just that there was one question unanswered. If this was indeed a killing ground, why was Grant marching into it?

  Braddock Heights 8:00 A.M.

  Ready to go, Ely?" Grant asked. "Yes, sir!" Grant looked around at his staff. Lohman would stay behind at the crest to keep an eye on the approach of Banks's Corps, which, though slow, was now cresting the South Mountain range. All of Hunt's guns had long since passed. Behind Banks would come the tangle of supply wagons, twenty-five miles of them, with orders to go into reserve behind the Catoctin Mountains, with priority given to ammunition, rations, and medical supplies.

  A report had just arrived that the railroad crews had completed the repair of the Cumberland Valley Railroad down to Hagerstown, and the first trains were coming in even now, carrying extra supplies. A dozen trains a day from Harrisburg would free up a thousand or more wagons that could be used to improve his supply line from Hagerstown to here. With the double mountain barrier, other than the problem it presented with the steep slopes, he now enjoyed a very secure line of supply. With the extra wagons, the load per wagon could be lightened to speed up the passage over the mountains. By midday his telegraphy crews promised they'd have a direct line completed from Hagerstown to Frederick. With that in place he'd be linked to Harrisburg and the North.

  Another crew a hundred miles away was hard at work stringing a connection due east out of Washington to the Chesapeake and another line on the east shore connecting into the line that ran up to Dover. By late in the day, messages from Washington and back, which only yesterday took days, would be cut to not more than an hour or two.