an army. If our men start executing prisoners now, then we have indeed lost God's blessing at a time that we need it the most. It will bring shame to our entire cause."
Lee edged Traveler into the water. His mount wanted to drink but he would not let him, the water was so tainted with blood. He pushed across, staff following. To his right, a quarter mile away, Robertson's Division was engaged in what was already being called the Hornets Nest. The railroad cuts for the Baltimore and Ohio had been turned into bastions. He could not see the fight from here. There was too much smoke, but the air was alive with bullets zipping and screaming overhead.
He paused and watched it with frustration. Taking that position now did not serve the plan. It was Frederick and the pass over the mountains that Beauregard should have focused on.
"Walter, send someone in there. Find Robertson. Order him to report to me now. I will be up on the road."
Several staff, escorted by a half dozen troopers, rode off.
He turned and continued up the field. Several of his escorts dropped from their saddles as they rode up the hill, weaving past a hospital area for the black troops. He detailed off another staff officer to stay with the hospital, bearing the -same orders he had given on the other side of the stream.
They crossed over the killing ground of the corner field, raced over the railroad tracks and up to the Buckeystown Road. Again chaos, wounded by the hundreds staggering back, fence rails down, crops trampled, a farmhouse on fire, wounded being pulled from inside even as it burned.
Turning onto the road he now saw the rear of Beauregard's divisions, pushing up, ranks thinned, a terrible bombardment striking into them.
Lee clenched his fist in frustration. Not against the guns. Not another Malvern Hill.
He wanted to go forward, but Walter rebelled, pushing in front of him.
"Sir, I am sorry, sir, but I cannot let you ride into that inferno."
Lee hesitated. Walter was right. The battle now hung by a thread, the orders he had so often given to his beloved generals, to stand back, to manage the fight, to not go into the middle of it, had to apply now to him, too.
"Send some men up there," Lee snapped. "Find Beauregard. Bring him back to me now!"
12:10 PM.
‘Feed it to them! There they are! Feed it to them!" Hunt cried. Gun after gun recoiled, sending deadly sprays of canister downrange to the rebel lines in the corn and grass, and they were returning fire. The ground ahead was a killing ground, casualties piled up by the hundreds, his gunners hard at work in the last fifteen minutes, following his order to retreat by recoil. After firing, the pieces were not rolled forward, but were loaded, in place, the elevation checked, and another canister round was blasted down the field. But canister was running short, many of the crews changing over to case shot cut with a half-inch fuse, blowing as they barely cleared the barrel. Those out of canister were converting back to solid bolts, the shock of one of those bolts passing through the ranks causing the enemy to scatter even if it struck down only one or two.
They were bleeding McLaw out, and his men were shouting with rage, sweeping the position with rifle fire, a good third of Hunt's gunners now down. He took a deep breath. "Hook up trail lines, retire by fire!" Caissons were backed up, cables run out to the trail pieces of the guns. A piece would fire, and the caisson crew would urge their horse forward a dozen paces while the crew reloaded, then the gun would fire again.
It was only a matter of time before they were overrun.
Rebel infantry was swarming about both flanks, horses were going down, stalling pieces in place, desperate crews trying to push their pieces back by hand, but they were still firing, holding them back.
"Feed it to 'em. God damn 'em. Feed it to 'em."
With Lee 12:30 P.M.
P. G.T. Beauregard came riding up, sweat streaming down his face in the humid heat, hat off, and Lee braced himself inwardly for the confrontation. "General," Lee said, "my orders to you last night I thought were clearly understood. Cross at the ford, establish contact, deploy, then sweep due north into the town and take it."
"Sir, it is not that easy," Beauregard replied. "If I had waited for McLaw and Robertson, we'd have wasted another hour, maybe two. I felt it was important to strike hard and fast."
"You hit without waiting. All four divisions at once, backed by a battalion and a half of artillery and a brigade from Jeb, should have overrun them in the first strike. Besides, you have let your command split. One division is wasted now containing that pocket down by the river."
"There is an entire corps trapped down there," Beauregard replied. "Destroy them and Grant's final offensive power is gone."
"It is costing far too much. You should have advanced, echelon to the north, aiming at Frederick. That and the road are the prize."
"It is too late to call back Robertson now; he is too hotly engaged, and his action protects my right flank."
"And the guns," Lee replied sharply. "Why are you sending McLaw straight at their guns?"
"That's all of Hunt's batteries up there, sir. Without infantry support. We take them and we cripple Grant."
"Sir," Lee said stonily, "you have lost focus. You are caught in the moment. Four of your divisions, angling toward Frederick, would have caused Grant to abandon the entire line, and I could have brought in Longstreet and Hood efficiently. Now we are split apart."
"So should I withdraw?" Beauregard asked sarcastically. "We have them on the run."
"No, you will not withdraw, but, sir, I am taking command here."
"Am I relieved, sir?"
Lee hesitated. If it had been nearly anyone else, he would have done so. But these were Beauregard's men, new to the Army of Northern Virginia.
"No, sir, you are not relieved, but I shall now ride with you. I want your men to echelon to the left and drive for the pass. I expect that within the hour. Now go see to your duty and we shall win this fight, regardless of loss."
Railroad Cut 12:30 P.M.
This was beyond anything he had ever imagined war to be. There was no place for the wounded; they lay where they fell. All were deafened by the slapping roar of the Napoleon whose crew had expended all their canister and case shot and was now reduced to firing solid shot, aiming low so that the ball would strike in front of the rebel infantry, kicking up a spray of ballast and splintered railroad tie, which hit with deadly impact.
If not for the barrier, all within the cut would have been swept away. The worst casualties were up on the slopes of the ravine, the men exposed to fire from the flanks even as they fought to keep back the rebels circling in from both sides. Men of several regiments were mingled together at the barricade, some of them whites from the next division who had brought up more ammunition and decided to stay.
"Granddaddy was at Oriskany;" one of them kept saying with a grin. "It was like this. Injuns just circling all around, whoopin' and hollerin'."
Several times the rebs surged to within yards of the cut, threatening to push the men on the lip back down. If that happened, it was over, but the men had held them back, the rebs going to ground.
"Raining, thank God," someone announced.
Washington looked up, felt a few soft splashes on his face, a light drizzle—cooling, a true relief.
12:35 P.M.
Grim, near to shaking with fear, Sergeant Hazner kept
low, back in the same gully he had been in the day before when the train exploded. They had been ordered down from their dug-in position an hour ago, to try to force the ruined bridge or, at the very least, to enfilade the railroad cut just west of the depot. A few had made a valiant rush onto the ruined bridge, jostling across broken ties, then trying to catwalk across the stringers in the midsection. Not one had made it.
So they had settled down to a steady, raging fire, adding to the smoke and confusion. The artillery above them pounded the opposite position. The blockhouse, which had guarded the entry into the cut, had finally collapsed in on itself after repeated hits,
but even in the ruins the Yankees hung on, firing back.
Men were dropping, but no ground was being gained, no advantage to be found, just a steady wearing down by both sides until finally exhaustion, lack of ammunition, or the fact that there was no one left to fight would decide it.
Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna 12:40 P.M.
Grant stood at the edge of town, field glasses raised. The town was directly behind him. McPherson's boys were hard at work, piling up barricades across the streets at the south edge of town.
Looking up toward the pass, he saw only a few wagons coming down. He had ordered all wagons to stay on the far side of the mountain except those bearing small-arms ammunition or artillery rounds.
A few shells were winging over toward the road, fired from a rebel battery deployed out on the left of their line. It was very long-distance fire, but nevertheless an indicator of what would be coming.
Banks's support division was up, filing in with McPherson's men.
Every regiment was now engaged, or soon would be. He had no reserves left. Banks's men up by the National Road were now reporting an assault supposedly led by Longstreet and backed by a dozen or more batteries.
Lee was indeed pushing all out.
Down below he could see the first of Hunt's guns coming back, drivers lashing their exhausted horses, emerging out of the smoke. The artillery fire within the smoke was slackening.
More guns came out, bouncing across the fields, and then he spotted Hunt. He sent a staffer down to lead him in.
Hunt looked like he had come out of a blast furnace, uniform scorched, face bleeding from a blistered burn, an eye nearly swollen shut.
"Sir, beg to report, I had to pull the guns back. We were getting flanked on both sides and nearly out of ammunition. By God, we emptied everything we had into them."
"You did fine, Hunt, held them up an hour or more."
"What a slaughter, sir, never seen anything like it. Worse than Malvern Hill, Gettysburg even. But they just kept coming. No ammunition left. We've been firing continually since just after dawn. I'm sorry, just couldn't get ammunition up fast enough ..."
He bent double, breathing hard, and Grant remembered this man was still recovering from the typhoid.
"Get your guns to the far side of town. Post them up to guard the road to the pass."
"Yes, sir."
Grant walked back and forth along the street that led down to Buckeystown, men to either side of him dragging out tables, fence rails, a busted-up sofa with its owner, behind the two men, howling in protest, anything that could stop a bullet.
A light drizzle was coming down, pleasant at first, cooling, actually cutting the smoke down a bit.
He could see them. They had stopped for the moment, positioned just north of where his headquarters had been. He took out his field glasses and in the diminishing smoke could make out some details.
Three divisions. The one that had overrun Hunt, on the right, re-forming ranks. The second, to the left, the third moving behind the second to reinforce their left. It was taking time, valuable time. Their guns were moving up the road, going ahead of the infantry and swinging out into an open field. In a few minutes they would start shelling him.
He turned to look out across the rest of the field. The Hornets Nest was an inferno. Rebs had it completely surrounded but so far had not closed in for the kill. If anyone would hold it to the end it would be Sheridan. It was tying up a lot of the Confederates. Those men should be focusing here, he realized.
To his left gunfire raged along the northern flank. Rebs were across the river just below the National Road, trading long-distance volleys with Banks's men. The rebs had moved a lot of artillery support up on that flank and were heavily pounding the infantry guarding the bridge, perhaps in preparation for a frontal assault directly across.
Grant took it all in. Lee's attack had degenerated into three separate uncoordinated fights.
He could afford to lose the center completely, even if not one man came back from Ninth Corps; they had more than traded their numbers. Banks's fight was almost a different battle, without coordination on their own left. The guns trapped on the far side, if moved over in support of the main attack, might make a difference, for his own artillery had been worn down to exhaustion.
No, it was going to be here, right here, today, that it would be decided. The three Confederate divisions deploying out, forming up. They just might knock me back and secure the Catoctin Road.
He had already decided that if the road was threatened, he would not try to pull back over it. That would turn retreat to utter rout. He'd order the supply wagons on the far side to turn about and evacuate back to Hagerstown, while he extracted the army to the north, following the pike up toward Middleburg and Taneytown.
That would draw Lee after him, even while Sykes came up and Hancock, in his turn, threatened Lee's rear. At some point the combined weight of his three converging forces would outweigh Lee, no matter what happened here in the next few hours.
He felt calm, and he tried to convey that calmness even as the legions below him continued their intricate maneuvers, shifting an entire division to the left of the assault. The first of their guns opened up, solid shot winging in, smashing into buildings at the edge of the town, brick flying, windows shattering.
All he could do now was wait.
With Lee 1:00 P.M.
Patience, he thought. Patience, just a few more minutes to get it right. Lee remained silent, watching as Beauregard's Division that had been down on the right flank filed behind their comrades drawn up a couple of hundred yards ahead. The maneuver was relatively easy. They had already been formed into battle line, so it was simply a matter of having them face left and start marching. But over a mile of ground had to be covered, over hillocks, through half-trampled corn, pushing over ground devastated by the Yankee artillery that had smashed into McLaw. It was taking time, and the men were tired.
The other divisions had advanced slightly, in echelon to the left, meaning that as they moved they did not advance straight ahead, but rather at a forty-five-degree angle to the left.
Lee was still on the road, Beauregard by his side. The man was fuming, embarrassed that the general commanding had seen fit to come down here to take direct control of his men.
"I still wish we had more," Lee announced and he looked back to where Robertson's men were attempting to storm the railroad cuts. Scales had yet to get across on the other side.
"I ordered Robertson to break off an hour ago," Lee snapped. "He should be coming up."
He turned and looked at Walter.
"Perhaps the message didn't get through," Walter offered. "Then send another."
"Sir, might it not be too late now?" Beauregard offered. "That will take another hour."
Lee looked over at Beauregard and reluctantly had to agree. It was indeed too late now to bring Robertson up, and even if he did, after so many hours of protracted fighting, Robertson would need several hours to rest and refit his men before going into another assault.
"Walter, get another courier down there. Tell Robertson, if he feels he is on the edge of a decisive breakthrough, to go ahead. Otherwise he is to stop the attack. Those people down there are pinned and it is useless to shed more blood trying to dig them out. We can take care of them after we defeat Grant and seize the town."
The long, sinuous column of troops marching behind Lee stopped. All up and down the line they turned and faced right, poised for a straight-in assault on the town about a mile ahead.
The formation was at last as he wanted it. Two divisions wide in the front. Two brigades of each division forward, a third brigade deployed two hundred yards to the rear.
The secondary line, three brigades wide, deployed two hundred yards farther back, behind the reserves of the first line. The guns ahead were keeping up a steady fire into the town with hardly a Yankee gun firing in return.
He wished he could see Longstreet having broken through on the other
side, the bridge there taken, his men closing in on Grant from the other side, but there was precious little movement, other than those troops who had forded the stream below the bridge but were being held back.
He could not wait any longer. The tattoo of rain was beginning to pick up. It did not look as if a downpour was approaching, but if it came down any harder, in a few hours movement might be difficult.
He turned in his saddle and his heart swelled.
So it had come down finally to this: a grand assault, in the old tradition of the great charge, to finish the battle. He had broken their right, pinned their center. There were no more reserves for Grant.
Grant's men must be exhausted, all the more so after the pounding and pullback.
Flags were held up all up and down the line. Three divisions, perhaps upward of eighteen thousand men, shoulder to shoulder.
It had all come to this, Gettysburg, Union Mills, Washington, Gunpowder River. One more charge, one more glorious charge and we break them forever and the war is won.
Win this charge and the enemy behind me will be but an annoyance to sweep away. The men down by the river are trapped. We destroy Grant this day and three days hence we will be in Washington, the war won.
He thought of Arlington. I could be home in two weeks.
He thought of Shakespeare, Henry V. Yes, indeed, this might be our Saint Crispin's Day.
Like Napoleon at Borodino the moment had come to break the enemy by frontal assault.
Jeb Stuart was by his side, hat off, grinning.
"General Stuart, you will command the left of this assault. Remember it is echelon to the left, keep obliquing to the left to flank the edge of the town and secure the road. General Beauregard, the right division will go into the town."
"Sir, I object," Beauregard replied haughtily. "Stuart is commanding my division, and I am commanding men I do not even know."
"Sir, it is either that way," Lee said testily, "or I shall command it myself."
"Yes, sir," Beauregard replied carefully.
"I will be with the Third Division and commit them to one of you or the other. Do we understand each other?"
Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 Page 41