"Check your caps, boys!" The cry went up and down the line, and men half-cocked their muskets, looking down to make sure their percussion caps were in place. A few fumbled in cap boxes to replace a lost or forgotten cap.
Two hundred yards.
Again another defiant rebel yell. An increase in the drum-roll beat. It was hard to see the men through the corn but their rifle tips and bayonets stood out clearly, the tidal wave coming forward, not slowing.
"Up, boys, up!"
The regiment stood up, the regiments down the line doing the same.
The colonel drew his sword and tilted his head back. "Set your sights for one hundred yards!" he roared. Men looked down at their Enfield rifles, some adjusting the rear sight.
"Volley fire on my command!"
They waited, rifles at the shoulder. The rebs kept on coming; they were not going to stop; they were coming straight in. Some of the rifle points disappeared, the men carrying them leveling their weapons for a straight-in bayonet charge.
'Take aim!"
The cry was picked up, each man shouting out the words, "Take aim!"
Across the regimental front six hundred rifles were lowered.
"Pick your targets, boys!" the colonel shouted.
Barrels shifted slightly, men searching for targets, hard to find in the cornfield, many therefore aiming straight in to where the enemy colors floated above the advancing line.
Bartlett felt as if he wanted to scream out the order himself. They were close. A hundred yards, yes, but it seemed as if within seconds those glistening bayonets would be right in his face.
The seconds dragged out, as slow as eternity itself. "Fire!"
The volley let loose as if delivered on the drill field. Six hundred rifles firing as one. Jim stood silent, awed. Before, they had always fired across an empty field. The corn directly in front of them just flattened, or flew up into the air. For a few seconds he wondered if any round had even been able to reach the rebs, but then through the smoke he saw rifles tips pitching backward, a regimental flag going down.
"Reload!" Bartlett roared, no longer able to hold himself back. "Hurry, boys! Reload!"
And then he heard it... a Southern voice yelling, "Charge, boys, charge 'em!"
It came from the cornfield.
A yell resounded, a high-pitched yipping like that of a pack of mad dogs on the scent of blood.
"Load, load, load!" A white officer was pacing in front of their volley line, gesturing wildly, urging the men on. Bits of cartridge paper flew into the air as men tore them open with their teeth, poured powder down barrels, squeezed bullet into barrel, and threw the paper aside. Ramrods were out, hundreds of arms rising up, pushing charges down the barrels.
All of it was combining together... "Charge!... Load, boys, load." ... the maddening rebel yell almost on top of them ... "Load, boys, load!"
"Volley fire, present!"
The colonel had remained absolutely still throughout, not budging an inch, not saying a single word, and Bartlett, looking at him, drew inspiration. Yelling would change nothing; it was calmness now that counted, calmness and nerves of steel.
"Take aim!"
He looked straight ahead. Cornstalks collapsing, flashes of bayonets, faces of men, distorted with battle fever and rage, rushing toward them.
Some of the men were not yet loaded, but most were, rifles leveled.
"Fire!"
A shattering roar. Then nothing but clouds of smoke. Men started to reload. Those who had not loaded quickly enough for the volley lowered their guns, aimed into the smoke, and fired.
And then a few men came out of the smoke, still at the run, bayonets lowered ... and smashed into the line.
Wild oaths, screams, men slashing out, rebs lowering rifles in the last few seconds and firing at waist level into the solid ranks. More men going down, the line bowing back just to the flank of the colors, the national flag bobbing down for a moment.
Bartlett looked left and right. The battle line almost broke open where a couple of dozen rebs had waded in, slashing, jabbing, a rebel officer with revolver drawn dropping several men before being clubbed down.
At the center the national flag was half down, its holder bayoneted in the stomach, a reb reaching out grabbing the flagpole, wrestling to pull it out of the grip of the dying man.
Bartlett leapt forward, bayonet poised, and dived into the melee, bayoneting the reb who had hold of the flag, and was hoisting it up, shouting with glee. The man collapsed, flag going back down.
"Volley fire, present!"
It was the colonel, still motionless, oblivious, it seemed, to the near breakthrough. 'Take aim!"
Less than half the men complied; the rest were fighting hand to hand or were so rattled by the onset that they moved as if trapped in mud. More than one had thrown his rifle down and was already running.
Bartlett pulled the colors back from the dying reb, using the staff as a club, waving it back and forth, several rebs trying to close in on him.
"Fire!"
Another volley and the few rebs directly in front dropped, some riddled by half a dozen or more rounds.
Washington stepped back into the line, panting for breath, his rifle gone, the flagstaff clutched with both hands.
Someone slapped him on the back and he half turned, ready to fight. It was John Miller.
"Sergeant Major, I'll take that, sir. You got other jobs to do."
He was reluctant to give it up, looking up at the banner, red stripes, part of the flag torn by a bayonet, blood on the white stars.
"Sergeant Major, if you don't mind, please."
It was the colonel.
He nodded, handed the flagstaff to Miller, picked up a rifle lying on the ground, and stepped back through the line. "Volley fire on my command!"
The line had held, half a hundred were down, but it still held. A glimpse through the smoke showed him a second rebel line was up, in the cornfield, about a hundred yards back, the corn in between already shredded down to the ground. Beyond them, up on the low rise, artillery pieces were wheeling into place.
He stepped back beside his colonel.
'Take aim!" the colonel roared.
Rifles were aimed downrange.
"Fire!"
"Reload!"
Bartlett, panting for breath, looked over at his colonel, who smiled. And to his horror he saw that the man was clutching his midsection, blood trickling out. Washington reached out to grab him, but the colonel waved him off.
"Just a scratch," the colonel said with a smile.
"Surgeon!" Bartlett shouted, but his voice was drowned out by men yelling, explosions, the steady tearing zip of minies coming into their lines.
"Leave off of it," the colonel snapped. "I'm still fine."
He looked at Bartlett and grinned.
"No one will ever take that flag away from you ever again, Sergeant Major."
The colonel turned back to face the rebel line.
"Take aim!"
"Fire!"
9.I5A.M.
Tell Robertson and McLaw they must come up now and we have them!" Beauregard snouted. A staff officer saluted, turned, and galloped back down the road.
Across his mile-wide front the battle had opened, volleys rattling, the air above and around him alive with bullets. He rode behind his regiments, the reserve brigades, one to each division advancing, already going in to strengthen the assault. Directly to the front of his First Division more than one man had gone into a near frenzy with the realization they were fighting colored troops.
He thought those would break with the first charge. The lead regiments had leapt forward without even firing, figuring to panic and bowl them over with the sight of the bayonet.
Those regiments had been shredded, and now a vicious firefight raged across the cornfield.
The first of his guns, a battery of Napoleons, were already in play but the shooting was tight for them. There was no good prominence to deploy on that would enable the g
unners to fire safely over the heads of the infantry in front. The range was short at six hundred yards, and missing in elevation by even a few feet would send case shot plowing into the backs of comrades, so most of the shells were going high, bursting far behind the enemy line.
He sent another courier over to the gunners, telling them to shift target, to bombard the crossing where Yankee infantry were drawn up defending the far side of the ford from increasing pressure by Jubal Early's battered survivors.
He looked back down the road—dust. It had to be Robertson; it had to be.
Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia 9:20 A.M.
He had not gone in as one solid blow, Lee thought, high enough above the smoke that he could clearly see the spreading battle on the other side of the creek.
Two divisions were in, trading blow for blow with what looked to be two divisions of Yankees. One division was far stronger than the other, and close examination had revealed them to be the colored troops. Most likely fresh from training fields, numbers not yet depleted, perhaps five thousand or more.
They had just sustained a mad frontal charge and held, his own men forced to give back, and now it was a stand-up firefight. Beauregard was right to try that tactic; if the blacks had broken in panic, that panic could easily have infected the rest of the army and sent them running, the way the German Eleventh Corps had at Chancellorsville.
The Yankees had taken a bad position to try to hold. Their left flank, on the far side of the creek, was at a right, angle to the ford. They should have conceded that point, pulled back several hundred yards to the north, but if they had done so, the Yankees still on the east side of the creek would have been completely surrounded.
There was a great opportunity now.
"Tell General Alexander to return his guns on our left back to their position of yesterday, to open a general bombardment on the Yankees below them. Also, tell Jubal he must push forward and retake that ford. That could begin to roll up their entire right flank."
An orderly saluted and galloped off.
Hood and Longstreet were by his side, both silent, glasses raised, watching the spreading fight.
"I should go down, help Jubal," Hood said. "I can bring up what's left of Rodes's old division as well.
Lee nodded in agreement, not saying a word.
"We're losing a lot of men down there," Pete said.
"So are they," Lee replied.
Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna 9:40 A.M.
He could sense the growing anxiety of his staff. Men were moving about hurriedly, couriers setting off a bit too quickly, spurring their mounts hard.
There was so much smoke now it was hard to see, the air absolutely still, filled with dampness, the kind of conditions that could cause battle smoke to become a thick, impenetrable fog.
Banks came in. Dapper-looking, fifteen years older than Grant, he saluted in a perfunctory manner. "You sent for me, sir?"
"I want you to prepare to shift your reserve division back into the center of Frederick, then move south of town to cover the Catoctin Road."
"Is this the beginning of a pullout?" Banks asked quietly.
"No, it is not!" Grant snapped, loud enough for everyone to hear. "We stand here, we fight here, we win here. We are not pulling out."
"Sir, may I be so bold," Banks said with almost a lecturing tone. "You have been flanked, sir, and that is Lee down there. He is already preparing to come in from across the river. I suggest we consider evacuation of this plain and pull back to the high ground."
"You are being bold and completely out of line, General Banks," Grant said icily. "I have given you an order. Now see that it is carried out. Keep your division in town. When I pass the order, they are to come out on to the plains south of town."
He paused, stepping closer to Banks.
'Those are my orders."
"Yes, sir," Banks said calmly. He saluted crisply, and without a look back, rode off.
The roar of battle continued to intensify. Hunt's batteries were fully engaged, half the pieces sending shot into Beauregard's guns, the other pieces pounding the ground on the other side of the ford, where increasing numbers of rebel infantry were pushing down toward the river.
"More rebs going in!" someone exclaimed.
Grant shifted his field glasses back to Beauregard's advance, but could see nothing, the smoke too thick. He lowered the glasses. It was hard to discern, but watching closely he could see a dark tide moving through the smoke, coming up to merge with the enemy's forward battle line:
"Bet that's the Texans," Ely Parker said softly.
First Texas 9:50 AM.
Men panting, bent double, the battle line of Hood's old Texas brigade surged forward. Behind them the rest of Robertson's Division was filing in behind Beauregard's right-flank division, having broken column from the road to swing into line.
They crossed over a railroad track, gray-clad bodies scattered along the right-of-way. A shell screamed in, bursting directly on the track, showering them with case shot and fragments of ballast, five men going down.
"Keep moving, boys!" Lee Robinson shouted. "Keep moving."
Men were cursing, a few falling out from exhaustion. Directly ahead he could see Monocacy Creek, and at the sight of it some men cried out that there was water.
At the head of the column was a staffer from Robertson's headquarters, mounted on a bloody horse, sword drawn, now pointing to their left.
'Turn and form line!" he screamed.
The men around Robinson cursed, one of the corporals snatching canteens from half a dozen of his comrades and ignoring the orders, dashing the last few yards down to the creek.
Lee let him go. Those who were still with this column were the solid hard core of the old First. No skulkers. They had been driven out long ago. Every man was a veteran, a veteran of the cornfield at Antietam, Fredericksburg, Union Mills, the debacle before Washington, the slaughter last week at Gunpowder River. An officer shouted for the corporal to come back, but the man ignored him, jumping into the creek, forcing the canteens down, then but a few seconds later coming back up the slope, muddy, water dripping, passing the canteens back to his comrades, who drank greedily and then passed the precious liquid to friends forming line around them.
"Forward at the double!"
The First Texas set off, a ragged line, but then again they were never noted for parade-ground performance, but when it came to a fight, they were the ones called upon.
"I heard it's niggers up there," someone cried.
"They can kill the same as a white man," someone shouted back, and from more than one there were dark oaths about what would happen to prisoners.
"None of that," Robinson shouted. "General Lee said prisoners will be taken and treated properly. I'll shoot the first man that disobeys."
No one spoke in reply; all were now too exhausted, too focused on what was ahead.
They swept past a battery of Napoleons, gun crews busy at work, pieces kicking back, gunners rolling their pieces forward while swabbers ran sponges down the bores to kill sparks and keep the barrels cool.
As the men passed in front of the guns the crews stopped work for a moment, a few cheering "old Texas!" on.
They hit the edge of the cornfield, or what had been the cornfield. It was mowed flat, barely a stalk standing, bringing to Lee's mind dark memories of Antietam, where the brigade had lost nearly eighty percent of its men in twenty minutes.
Hundreds of bodies littered the ground, the wounded who were unable to walk trying to crawl to the rear. Walking wounded staggered about, seeing Texas coming on, a few of them cheering, others just standing silent.
The roar of battle ahead swelled. Nothing could yet be seen, .only smoke, a shell bursting overhead, more men going down, a riderless horse dragging a body, the foot of a dead man caught in the stirrups, the litter of battle, drums, cartridge papers, smashed and twisted rifles, and bodies and more bodies.
Finally he saw it, a shadowy line, m
en no longer standing, most down on their knees or lying flat as they fought. "Forward, Texas!"
Sergeant Major Bartlett remained by the side of his colonel, whose features were pale, graying, lifeblood seeping out between the fingers of his right hand clasped to his stomach. But the man was still on his feet.
They had long ago gone to independent fire at will. Most of the men had fired off the forty rounds in their cartridge boxes and were now reaching into haversacks and pants pockets or scavenging in the cartridge boxes of the dead and wounded.
Bartlett had left his colonel a few times to pace down the line, detailing off parts of companies to stand back from the fight for a few minutes, to upend canteens into barrels to loosen the gummy powder and swab their barrels clean.
Those without water he ordered to pee down the barrels, a few of the men, in spite of the horror around them, laughing about getting shot in the wrong place while they did as ordered.
Guns were so hot that to touch them with bare skin would blister the flesh off, and men actually laughed as one soldier, following Bartlett's orders, suddenly dropped his gun and began to hop about in agony.
As he reached the right flank of the line he looked for Major Wallace, to report that the colonel was badly wounded and would not last much longer, but Wallace was dead, shot through the forehead.
The line was still holding, but over half the men were down. In sections they were stretched out in nearly a straight row, a gap of a dozen feet in the front, and Bartlett ordered men in to fill the gap, calmly telling them to close the line, center on the flag, and keep firing.
Fifty yards back, down in a shallow depression he saw the surgeon at work, and in spite of the call of duty he ran back, looking around frantically. The surgeon looked up at him, pausing while he bandaged off the arm of a corporal and caught Bartlett's eye, nodding over to his right. His son was helping to drag in a man shot in the face. He nodded and ran over to his son.
"Daddy." The boy looked up at him wide-eyed and then smiled.
"Not afraid now," his son gasped. 'Too much to do, but wish I could play the drum."
He patted his son on the shoulder then bent low and sprinted back to the colonel's side.
Just as he reached the colonel the intensity of fire from the enemy side redoubled, swelled, a shattering volley taking down half the men of the color guard. Miller was still standing, though, keeping the national flag aloft.
Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 Page 38