"At least two divisions, sir," he announced. "Sorry I took so long, but I wanted a good look at them, try to count their flags and such."
"Where's Lieutenant Moore?" Ely asked.
"He got hit. Killed, sir, some of them reb skirmishers are damn good shots."
His horse was bleeding from two wounds, testament to the accuracy of fire he had faced while scouting.
"Continue with your report," Grant said quietly.
"Sir. I counted enough flags for at least two divisions. It's Beauregard. I remember seeing him at Shiloh, sir. It's definitely him."
"Just two divisions?"
"No, sir. They were deployed out into a front of two divisions, behind them about twenty, maybe twenty-five guns. But I could see more men coming up from the road, also moving through fields. I'd reckon at least one more division, maybe two. I caught sight of a Texas flag with those men."
"Robertson perhaps," Grant said softly.
"Could not say, sir. Did you hear those guns fire off?"
"Yes, we did," Ely interjected.
"That was a signal. They're advancing. Like I said, two divisions wide, right flank on the river, coming straight up the road from Buckeystown."
The man fell silent and Ely offered him a canteen, which he gladly took and drained half.
"Good report, soldier," Grant said. 'Take care of your horse and get something to eat."
Grant walked away from the scout, Ely following.
"Ely," he said quietly, "send for Ord and Sheridan now. No hurrying about, no panic, but I want them up here quickly."
Grant turned about and walked to the campfire, knowing all eyes were upon him. Everyone at headquarters had heard the report.
He sat down by the cookfire. He was hungry again, and
after losing his first attempt at breakfast he was tempted to try again. This time he'd have to keep it down. Everyone was watching, and if he threw up, all would think it was nervousness and not just the headache. Besides, he'd need food; it was going to be a long day. He sat down, took a piece of hardtack offered by the cook, and chewed on it in silence.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
McCausIand's Ford 8:15 A.M.
Up, men, up!" Sgt. Maj. Washington Bartlett knew something was happening long before the order was given. The division had deployed just behind the crest of a ridge, a ruined brick farmhouse above, obviously the site of yesterday's terrible battle. Just beyond the ridge a steady fusillade was resounding, the men of Ord's surviving troops engaged just on the other side of the rise. Since deploying, the men had been busy scratching at the ground with bayonets, tin cups, anything to dig out a little protection from the long-distance artillery bombardment coming down out of the hill to the left.
A few dozen had been hit, the first blooding of the division, but the men had held steady.
Minutes earlier he had seen Sheridan galloping up from the ford, and the way he rode, flat out, told Bartlett that something big was about to take place.
He quietly worked up his nerve, at one point looking over at John Miller, who returned his gaze, tight-lipped.
"Think we're going in?" Miller asked.
"Well, that general didn't ride over just to ask us how we were doing."
And now the command. "Up, men, up!"
Within seconds, like a giant dark wave, the ten regiments of the United States Colored Troops were up, preparing to dress into line of battle.
"By column of regiments, starting from the left!"
'That's us," Bartlett shouted, and he started to move to the left of the line, the position the colonel said he should assume when they went into a fight.
"By column of companies, to the left wheel, march!"
Surprised, the men looked at each other, not responding at first. They were being ordered to turn about and head back to the ford, away from the fight.
Bartlett looked back. The other regiments were repeating their maneuver, stepping away from what they thought would be their assault position, shifting from battlefront into columns by company front.
Sheridan came back from the front line, still riding hard, one of the white officers of Bartlett's regiment trotting over to meet him.
"Sir, I thought we were going to fight?" the officer cried. "My boys are ready."
"You will fight, damn it!" Sheridan cried. "We're being flanked to the right and rear on the other side of the creek. You are going to have to meet Lee's flank attack head-on. Now get your boys moving!"
Sheridan galloped off toward the ford several hundred yards away.
That stopped the grumbling and a few even offered a cheer as Sheridan rode off.
The officer turned, grim-faced.
"Move it! Back to the ford! Move it!"
From the lip of the crest Bartlett could see small formations of white troops coming as well, running fast.
8:30 AM.
Beauregard was still out front, now riding with Jeb's troopers, who were deployed in a forward battle line, a quarter mile ahead of the infantry. He turned to look back, the divisions moving steadily, but slowly. It was the old problem of any advance in line versus column. Units were weaving their way through farmyards, woodlots, fields high with corn, open pastures, knocking down fencerows before pressing into the next field.
He regretted now not keeping them in column formation, to shake out into line when the Yankees were in sight, but that could be a problem as well. It could take up to a half hour to shift a divisional column into line of battle, and if they were caught by surprise, especially while trying to change formations, a debacle could ensue.
Also, he did want impact. The sight of a mile-wide battlefront advancing could be overwhelming to an enemy force if they were still in column and marching rapidly up to meet them.
Besides, he could not help but marvel at the sight. It was grand beyond anything he had ever witnessed before, a fulfillment of all old dreams of glory to be found in war. He knew it was inspiring to the men as well, occasional cheers still rippled up and down the lines, battle flags to the fore, drummers keeping the beat.
The ground ahead was opening up, broadening out into a vast open plateau. The Catoctin Range was clearly visible, straight ahead, the church spires still standing in Frederick and the town itself becoming visible as well.
A gentle rise in ground was almost directly ahead and to the right of that the creek was bending to the left, the ground leading down to the Monocacy, a long open slope.
'That's the ford over to the McCausland Farm," Jeb announced, "just behind that low rise. We take that and if Ord is on the other side, he'll be bottled up. But it don't look that way now."
As he spoke Jeb pointed ahead, straight up the road. They were still a mile off, but he could see a dark column, concealed in dust, moving at a right angle to his own advance,
heading to the west No, they were stopping, shaking out
from column into line.
Beauregard grinned. It was about to begin.
Jeb shouted an order, a regiment of troops, spurring their mounts, pushing forward.
"Maybe we can still catch them while they're moving," Jeb announced.
‘Form here, form here!" Sergeant Bartlett ran down the front of the regiment, following his white officers, as the regiment, soaking wet after having double-timed across the ford, began to swing back out into line of battle. Men were breathing hard, some pointing south, exclaiming. "Here they come. God, look at 'em!" "Silence!" Bartlett screamed. "Damn all of you. Come to attention and remain silent!"
The men looked at him, braced themselves. Bartlett caught the eye of the colonel, who nodded his approval.
They had been the first across the creek and were immediately pivoting. Their left was nearly at the stream, the right just about up to the railroad tracks; the next regiment was falling in beside them, and then another and another.
Bartlett stepped a dozen feet forward, first glaring at his men, then curiosity got the better of him and he looked up the line.
It was a grand sight, three regiments already in place, a fourth falling in, extending their front now to a quarter mile. The last of the black regiments from the Second Brigade ran by behind them, and right behind them, the first of Ord's men were crossing the stream.
They were a grim-looking lot. Their uniforms were filthy, some not much better than tattered rags. Their faces were blackened, some with uniform jackets off, others with hats missing. They moved slower, obviously numbed and exhausted, some helping along wounded comrades.
And from the direction they had come, distant gunfire erupted.
An occasional round whizzing by overhead, Bartlett's men involuntarily looking up as if they could see the passage of the ball.
"To the front!"
Bartlett turned.
A cornfield was directly in front of them but the ground sloped up enough that he could see mounted men, about six hundred yards away, coming toward them.
The colonel was studying them intently with his field glasses. He lowered them and looked over at Bartlett.
"Those are rebel cavalry. Forward screen. They'll start opening with a harassing fire, Sergeant. The men are to kneel down, not return fire, until their infantry comes up. I want the first volley to hit them like a sledgehammer."
"Yes, sir."
"Scared, Bartlett?." the colonel asked. "No, sir."
The colonel winked at him.
"I am. Any sane man would be at a moment like this. Remember, Sergeant, courage is being afraid but then doing your duty anyhow. Just remember that and you will do fine."
"Yes, sir."
The colonel slapped him on the shoulder.
"When it starts, I want you close to me. We'll be behind the volley line, directly in the center, same way we drilled it a hundred times back in Philadelphia."
"Yes, sir."
"If I should fall," the colonel said, "Major Wallace will take command. If he falls, then it's up to the company officers and especially you sergeants to keep the men fighting."
"You won't get hurt," Bartlett said.
The colonel smiled.
"I was in every fight with the Army of the Potomac from
Gaines Mill to Fredericksburg, where I got wounded. Believe me, Sergeant, officers fall."
He gave a tight-lipped smile.
"Prove something today, Bartlett."
"Sir?"
A minie ball hummed overhead, a puff of smoke erupting from the middle of the cornfield, the shooter invisible. Dozens of more shots ignited, a man in the ranks cursing, dropping his rifle, staggering back, clutching his arm. Men to either side looked at him nervously.
"Kneel down, boys, kneel down," the colonel shouted. The men quickly did as ordered, down on one knee, rifles still poised to the front.
The colonel looked back at Bartlett, who realized at that instant the colonel was playacting. He remained standing, talking with the regimental sergeant major as if the two were just standing about, having a friendly conversation, with not a care in the world.
From the opposite bank, a quarter mile up the slope, puffs of smoke were visible, more rounds coming their way, minie balls whining overhead, another man going down, this one silently, the man next to him beginning to scream, frantically wiping blood and brains from his face.
"We're going to be enfiladed from that crest," the colonel said, nodding back to the opposite bank. "Hope Ord at least left a good skirmish line out there to keep them back."
Behind the USCT battle line, the rest of Ord's men were still trudging across the creek, some running, some limping, some barely able to move. Farther down the line at the end of the right flank of the Colored Division, the first of Ord's men were falling into place to extend the line.
"I was saying, Sergeant Major, today is a day to prove something."
"And that is, sir?"
"You and your men stand this fight, and for the rest of your lives you will be able to look any other man in the face and say you are his equal."
"Some might not see it that way, sir," Bartlett replied quietly.
The colonel laughed, then shook his head. He slowly began to pace, a dozen yards in front of their line, and Bartlett knew this was the continuation of the act. And he was now part of that act, to play at being totally unconcerned, and by their example, brace up the men about to face their first action. A quick look to the flank showed him other officers doing the same. A few were extolling their men, others were just quiet, pacing back and forth. One had a Bible out and was reading aloud from it.
"You know, I'm from Ireland," the colonel continued. As he spoke, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar, lit it, and then looked at Bartlett. He pulled out a second cigar. Though Washington Bartlett had never smoked, he took it now, the colonel holding the match while he puffed it to light. He made the mistake of inhaling and started to cough.
Several of the men in the ranks chuckled, as did the colonel.
"I was born in Ireland," the colonel continued, while slowly walking in front of the men, Bartlett by his side. "Came over in 'forty-seven, fleeing the potato famine, a starving lad, nothing but skin and bones and rags when I got off the boat."
Another scattered volley from the cornfield, another man went down, hit in the knee. One of the officers in the next regiment on the line collapsed, and an angry shout went up, the line actually beginning to surge forward, their officers shouting for the men to stand back in place.
For a second Bartlett looked back behind his own men and saw his son, with the other drummer boys. They were down on their stomachs, clustered near the regimental surgeon.
."I first worked as a navvy," the colonel continued, "digging for the railroads at four bits a day plus keep. Became a section boss finally. War comes and I'm a sergeant. My Alice was my salvation; she kept telling me to get some book learning while I was in the army. Had a good company officer, used to teach us reading, history, literature, and such in the evenings to pass the time in winter quarters. Found I liked the learning and began studying. Lot of things, history of our country, biographies of the Founding Fathers, and, of course, Hardee's drill manual.
"While I was in the hospital after Fredericksburg, word came around they were forming up colored regiments and looking for good men with combat experience to volunteer as officers."
He smiled.
"And now here I am a colonel."
Bartlett noticed a change in tone as the colonel talked on. He had fallen into a bit of a brogue when talking of his life, different from the studied attempt at sounding like he was educated, a professional man.
"I heard about that letter the president sent to you. Can I see it?"
Washington proudly unbuttoned his jacket, reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out a pocket Bible, the letter folded inside. He opened it up and handed it to the colonel.
Men in the ranks nodded. 'The letter, he's reading the letter," some of them said.
The colonel held it reverently, read the contents, then handed it back.
"God bless old Abe," the colonel said, this time loud enough for the men of the regiment to hear.
Several repeated his words.
"I understand your father works in the White House."
"Yes, sir," Washington replied proudly. "Been there near on to fifty years. My middle name is Quincy, named after the president who gave me a silver cup when I was baptized. I'm mighty proud of my father."
"And that's your son back there?" the colonel motioned toward the surgeon, where the drummer boys were mingled in with the stretcher bearers.
"Yes, sir."
"Make sure you keep him back today," the colonel said quietly.
'Thank you, sir. I will."
"Sergeant Major, you know there was no love lost between us Irish and you colored." "I know that, sir."
"Both fighting for the same jobs, both treated as trash. This war is changing that forever." "I hope so, sir."
"I know so. Today is your day to win what we Irish won at Fredericksburg."
> Bartlett's back was to the south as the two talked. The colonel paused, looking past him.
"They're coming," the colonel whispered.
Bartlett turned and for several seconds he was frozen in place.
Bayonet tips showed just beyond the opposite slope six hundred yards away. Rising above the bayonets, at regular hundred-yard intervals, were the banners of the Confederacy. Within seconds the bayonet tips were rifle muzzles, then a wall, a wall of gray and butternut, cresting up over the apex of the low rise. Onward they came, not slowing, reaching the edge of the cornfield and then disappearing again, except for the rifle muzzles and bayonets projecting above the stalks.
In the silence he could actually hear them coming, the tramping of feet, cornstalks snapping, wavering, and collapsing. It was wave, a tidal wave, an ocean of armed men, relentless, coming forward, the silence broken by cheers from their side now that their enemy was in sight.
'To our duty, Sergeant Major," the colonel said. He turned and casually walked back to the middle of the regimental line. He paused, looked up at the flags, the distinctive yellow regimental flag of the USCTs, beside it the national colors. He formally came to attention and saluted both.
"Fight like hell, boys!" the colonel shouted. "Keep ah eye on your glorious flags! If they go forward, you go forward!"
He stepped back through the ranks, the men still kneeling except for the color guard, and took position directly behind them, Bartlett by his side.
Three hundred yards out and the rebels were still advancing. Bartlett looked at them in astonishment. Their advance was a solid wall, some officers mounted and out front. Drummers beat out a continual roll. Another cheer that sent chills down his spine, the legendary rebel yell. He had heard it often enough yesterday, from a distance, now it was truly real, coming straight toward him.
More than one in the ranks was looking back at him, eyes wide with fear.
Suddenly John Miller stood up.
"Damn rebels!" he roared, shaking his fist. "Come on, you sons of bitches."
With that a loud shout erupted from the regiment, some of the men began to stand up, officers shouting for them to remain kneeling.
Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 Page 37