Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03

by Newt Gingrich; William R Forstchen

  "The Yankees also have marines that were stationed in Washington, some naval troops, even a few infantry and heavy artillery units stationed down at Fortress Monroe. Combine those with the garrison down there and we have a major problem on our hands."

  As he spoke he pointed toward Fort McHenry.

  "If we had that fort, they wouldn't dare to come into this inner harbor. Now they can land with impunity by early this afternoon. I wish now we'd taken that fort."

  Judah looked over at Lo, suddenly filled with curiosity.

  "Is it true, sir, that your uncle commanded the defense of this city against the British?" Judah asked.

  "Yes, sir. He commanded the garrison in that fort right down there." Lo pointed to McHenry. "In fact the original flag from that night, the Star-Spangled Banner, is still in my family's possession."

  "A curious war we have here," Judah said quietly.

  Neither of the officers replied.

  He could see that the fleet was drawing closer by the minute, and then, to his utter amazement, a flash ignited from the fort, and seconds later a shell burst directly over where they stood.

  Judah ducked down, Lo by his side.

  "I guess the truce between us here is over," Judah said, trying to act game, even though the explosion had terrified him.

  Pickett slid down beside the two, the men within the battery scattering. Though they still had a half dozen guns in the position, none were currently manned, the other pieces having been pulled out during the feint on Washington at the start of the Gunpowder River campaign.

  A half dozen more shells screamed in, exploding, kicking up showers of dirt, scattering panic-stricken civilians out in the street. ,

  "Mr. Secretary," Lo said, "I think you better get back to your quarters, pack up, and, frankly, sir, get out of this town."

  "What?"

  "Just that, sir."

  "Damn them," Pickett gasped. "We've been hoodwinked. At least they could have shown the common courtesy to send up a flag of truce and announce they were about to fire."

  Another shell screamed in, missed the fort, and blew up against a house across the square.

  "I don't think it's time for courtesies," Judah replied. "General Pickett, sir, can you hold against that?"

  Judah half-leaned up and pointed out to the ships steaming into the harbor.

  Pickett looked at him coldly and shook his head.

  "Against that, sir?"

  Pickett was angry.

  "My boys did their duty at Gunpowder River. I get blamed for it, I'm left with little more than two brigades, and given the number of ships out there, there could be fifteen thousand or more Yankees."

  "Your orders were to hold," Judah said coldly.

  Pickett hesitated, then reluctantly nodded his head.

  "I'll try, sir, but I can tell you, before evening we'll be on the run. I suggest you, sir, get out of Baltimore now. Go up and join General Lee."

  "There are some home-guard units," Judah argued, trying to remain calm.

  "Maryland, my Maryland?" Pickett replied sarcastically. "A rabble. A few thousand. If that's Sykes out there, they'll mow them down. We're finished here."

  "I shall tell General Lee your exact words," Judah snapped.

  Judah stood up, tried to act dignified by brushing himself off, then ran out of the fort and down the street to his hotel. The crowd of curious civilians of but minutes ago was now a terrified mob, running in every direction. He saw one man leaning out of a window, tearing down the Confederate flag that hung from it, letting it flutter to the street, and then slamming the window shut.

  A crowd came pouring out of a tavern down the street, some cheering, and with their cheering a fight broke out.

  Madness, all of it madness, Judah thought.

  He ran up to his room, grabbed a carpetbag, and quickly stuffed into it every document tie thought might be of value and two small heavy bags of gold coins, the official funds for his venture here. His black servant, showing good common sense, had just finished packing his suitcases.

  Judah looked around the room that had been his unofficial office for the last five weeks. He had come into it with so many hopes and dreams, that from here he could engineer an alliance with France, perhaps England, perhaps end this carnage. Maybe Lee could still retrieve that, but his job here was finished.

  He picked up his carpetbag and headed down the stairs. To his amazement the owner of the hotel confronted him.

  "Sir, regarding your bill," the man said with an unctuous tone. "You have run up quite a few charges."

  "You said you were honored for me to be here when I first checked in," Judah snapped.

  "Sir, we are talking about nearly five thousand dollars. The bill for the champagne and oysters alone is rather significant." The man held up a long charge sheet. "And should I add, this is calculated in standard currency, not Union greenbacks," he paused, "or Confederate paper."

  "Send the bill to me in Richmond when the war is over," Judah snapped.

  He shouldered past the man and out on to the street.

  To his amazement he saw a single-horse carriage come up, top down. It was his old friend Rabbi Gunther Rothenberg.

  "Figured you'd need a ride," the rabbi said.

  "In the name of the Eternal," Judah gasped. "You are indeed a friend. The rail yard of the B and O, my friend."

  "What I assumed, Mr. Secretary."

  Half a dozen trains had finally returned from the front and Cruickshank was back at work, ordering the loading of the stockpiles of ammunition, when he heard the first shell detonate, the explosion echoing against the brick buildings. All had stopped work, looking toward the center of town. Less than a minute later a civilian had ridden through, whipping his horse, crying that a Yankee invasion fleet was coming.

  All work had stopped, the single explosion now followed by a continual thumping roar, half a dozen explosions a minute. The report of the panicky civilian was confirmed minutes later when a staff officer from Pickett rode in and took Cruickshank aside.

  "We're abandoning the town," the officer said. "General Pickett orders you to load up what you can of the supplies, then set the rest afire."

  The man had then ridden off without waiting for a reply. Cruickshank watched him leave, McDougal coming to his side.

  "Well, General, looks like that's it for you." Cruickshank stared at him.

  "Quite a few tons of explosives in those warehouses," McDougal said quietly. "Light them off and you'll burn down half the city. Now, frankly, I don't care about them rich folks, but it'll ruin us being able to work here for a long time to come."

  "Orders are orders," Cruickshank said coldly. McDougal did not reply. He simply stuck his hands in his pockets.

  Two more trains backed into the station, one carrying wounded, the second, a single passenger car. The second came to a halt at the main depot, and after several minutes an escort of Confederate soldiers came out, struggling to maneuver a stretcher out the door, the body on it draped with a Union flag.

  "That must be him," McDougal said.

  Cruickshank did not reply. He watched as the small entourage stepped down from the train and then walked off, a Confederate officer helping to hold up a young woman, all of them oblivious to the spreading confusion, the rumble of explosions.

  "Cruickshank!"

  He looked up and saw a small carriage coming across the yard, jostling and shaking as it crossed the tracks. He recognized the man as Judah Benjamin.

  The driver of the carriage, wearing what to Cruickshank appeared to be a strange small round cap, reined in, and Judah stepped down.

  "You've heard?"

  "Ah, yes, sir. At least that there's fighting."

  "There's a flotilla of Yankee ships coming up the harbor loaded with troops. Fort McHenry is bombarding our positions, and General Pickett will undoubtedly pull back without putting up much of a fight."

  Cruickshank did not reply.

  "Where's the telegraph station?"
/>   "This way, your honor," McDougal said with a smile and led Judah off.

  Cruickshank, unsure what to do next, finally turned to one of his lieutenants and told him to round up all the men of their command at once. They were to leave their packs, just grab their rifles, and come on the double.

  He looked at the man with the strange hat in the carriage.

  The man smiled, extended his hand, and introduced himself.

  "Do me a favor, General," Gunther asked. . "Yes, sir?"

  "Keep an eye on my friend. He has a hard road ahead, as do you. I shall keep you both in my prayers."

  McDougal came out of the telegraph office, motioning to the train that had brought in McPherson, and began to shout orders.

  With amazing speed the yard crew set to work, the locomotive and the lone passenger car shifted over to a sidetrack with a water tank, crew swinging over the pipe to refill the tender, other men scrambling to toss up wood, others with large oilcans checking the drive wheels, while yet others opened the journal boxes of the passenger car and, from buckets, slathered in hunks of grease.

  "All but five of the men are reported in, sir."

  Cruickshank turned to see his rough-looking detachment lining up, nearly a hundred men in all.

  "Who is missing?"

  "Oh, Vem Watson and several of his friends." The others chuckled.

  "Where the hell are they?"

  The lieutenant looked up at Gunther.

  "Are you a man of the cloth, sir?" the lieutenant asked, features a bit red.

  "A rabbi."

  "What?"

  "He's Jewish," one of the men shouted. "Go on," Cruickshank snapped.

  "Well, Vern and his friends went down to a house of ill repute, said they'd be back by noon, and you wouldn't notice them missing."

  Cruickshank sighed.

  "Well, let the Yankees roust them out of bed. Now get aboard that train."

  The men broke ranks and ran to the passenger car, piling in to overflowing, some scrambling up onto the roof, others atop the wood tender, a few even perching on the cowcatcher.

  Judah came out of the telegraphy office, followed by several Confederate soldiers who had been manning the post. He walked up to Cruickshank.

  "We're leaving now. That Mr. McDougal said he'd have a train ready for us."

  "Over there, sir."

  Judah nodded, walked over to the carriage, and extended his hand to Gunther.

  "God be with you, my friend," Gunther said.

  "Someday, when this is all over, come to Richmond as my guest," Judah said.

  "We'll see," Gunther said sadly.

  Judah. looked straight into his eyes, smiled, then, taking his carpetbag, he headed for the train. Gunther turned his carriage about and rode off.

  Cruickshank found himself alone looking over at the row of warehouses stockpiled with munitions, boots, tents, heavy machinery that was to be transported back to Richmond to aid in artillery production, crates of tools, armored plating for ironclads, rail for track, machinery to make breechloading carbines, tens of thousands of horseshoes.

  It'll take ten minutes to set it ablaze, he thought, and what a fire that will be.

  He noticed as well that McDougal's workmen stood about, gazing at him. A few had picked up shovels, heavy wrenches, pry bars, axes, and picks.

  He could order his men out of the car, one volley would scatter the workmen, and they could then level this damn place. In the distance he could hear more explosions and the distant crying of a mob, rioting yet again.

  McDougal came up to his side.

  "Your train is ready. General. You have a clear road up to Relay Station, then a thirty-minute delay until a convoy of a dozen trains passes on both tracks, though I dare say that plan will change now, what with you having all them locomotives up there and not wanting them back here."

  A dozen locomotives, all they could have carried, Cruickshank thought. Enough' to equal two thousand wagons of supplies.

  "Just one question, McDougal, and be honest for once, damn it," Cruickshank asked, gaze still fixed on the warehouse.

  "Anything at all, General, sir."

  "You were playing me double the whole time, weren't you?"

  McDougal laughed softly.

  "Honesdy? An Irishman to an Englishman turned rebel?"

  Cruickshank looked him the eyes.

  "Honesdy."

  "Of course I was, sir."

  "Why?"

  "Wouldn't you if we was reversed? You know, Cruickshank, though you're a bloody Englishman by birth, why you ever sided with them is beyond me. Slavery, all that. It's no different than the way we was treated in Ireland or you in the slums of Liverpool.

  "So if you be wishing to shoot me, go ahead. But my boys over there, they might not have guns, but you should see the way they can swing a pick or pry bar into a man's head when they got to. And if you try to burn the warehouses, that's what you'll face."

  Cruickshank was silent.

  "Don't do it," McDougal said quietly. "I wouldn't want our friendship here to end in a bloody brawl. Besides, you'll bum half the city down and things here are hard enough as it is. My men have families, as do I."

  Their gazes held for several seconds.

  "A deal then," Cruickshank said, "the last of our deals."

  "Go on."

  "Help me to load two or three trains with ammunition, and I'll spare everything else."

  "How do I know you won't burn it anyhow, once loaded up?"

  "You have my word on it." McDougal hesitated then nodded.

  "Deal."

  McDougal turned to his men and started to shout orders, Cruickshank doing the same to his own command, having them stack arms.

  Within minutes hundreds were at work at a pitch Cruickshank had not seen once across the last several days. Cases of small-round ammunition were lugged out and hauled into boxcars or carted over to the train where Judah still waited and piled into the passenger compartment. Boxes of artillery shells, two men to a box, were trotted out and put on flatcars.

  Locomotives were uncoupled while the crews worked, moved up to the engine houses, where fuel and water were taken on, grease and oil checked, then returned to the cars and hooked up.

  It took little more than an hour to have three entire trains loaded up.

  All the time the sound of gunfire was increasing, now counterpointed by the shriek of heavy shells, most likely from the monitors.

  Finally, McDougal approached Cruickshank.

  "I've given you three trains, as promised. They'll run fine."

  The three engines were already maneuvering out of their sidings, pulling the precious supplies that could sustain the army through an entire long day of battle.*

  Again a moment's hesitation. Cruickshank looked back to the warehouses crammed with enough for a dozen more trains but already, across the far side of the railyard he could see a column of infantry pulling back, heading northwest, out of town.

  "A deal is a deal," Cruickshank replied and stepped past McDougal, walked to the passenger car, and mounted the back steps. Leaning out, he waved to one of his men who was in the locomotive cab. The engine lurched, beginning to inch forward with a blast of steam.

  "General, darlin'."

  He looked down, McDougal walking alongside him. "What now?"

  "You know you forgot my day's wages for today. Since I only worked half the day, that'll be thirty dollars in silver." "Go to hell!"

  "Where I expect to meet you, too, sir."

  McDougal reached into his back pocket, pulled out a bottle, and tossed it up to Cruickshank.

  "We'll drink another when we meet in the lower regions," McDougal shouted.

  Cruickshank almost allowed himself to smile. Uncorking the bottle, he took a long drink and climbed to the back platform of the train.

  McDougal stood in the middle of the track, waving, growing smaller and smaller as the train picked up speed ... the last train out of Baltimore, smoke boiling up from the city beyo
nd.

  Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 12:45 P.M.

  'hey're going in!" one of his staff cried.

  He did not need to be told. Though the smoke all but masked the movement, he could see the dark columns coming down the slope toward his left flank, heading toward the same ford they had attempted to breach the day before. This would be the obvious point of attack now that his guns had drawn back.

  Alexander was already redirecting his fire, shifting from long-distance counterbattery to direct support, pounding the heavy columns, which looked to be of corps strength, perhaps fifteen thousand men. At last Grant was committing himself.

  He felt it was time to move, to go down behind the McCausland Farm, to see directly to the repositioning of the guns and to ensure the movement of one of Beauregard's divisions into a support position if the pressure on Hood's men down at the ford became too heavy.

  "Sir?"

  It was one of his staff, holding a note, his hand shaking. Lee took it and scanned its contents and felt as if he had just taken a visceral blow. It was from Judah Benjamin. He looked back to the west.

  Was this coincidence or part of your plan? he wondered, looking toward what had been identified as Grant's headquarters area.

  If planned, it was masterful. Seek battle here, block the river, for that report had just come in a half hour ago, and now strike my base of supply.

  He looked down at the assaulting column, his own troops having opened up on it with a thunderous volley, Union troops by the scores dropping, and still it pushed forward.

  He crushed the telegram in his fist.

  Fine, then, he thought. Let it be here. It will take two, perhaps three days for whatever is hitting us in Baltimore to take effect. So come on and attack, and let us see how we match each other. In that time I will crush you, and then all your maneuverings will be meaningless.

  He went over to Traveler, mounted, and rode down to face the approaching charge.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  McCausland Farm 4:30 PM.

  It had been a bloody nightmare; in fact, it still was. Ord slowly walked up the long slope from the ford to the burned-out ruins of the farm.