Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03

by Newt Gingrich; William R Forstchen

  "Yes, sir," Jeb said with a flourish, removing his hat. Beauregard simply nodded.

  "I am not one for theatrics before the troops, gentlemen," Lee said quietly. "Now go forward!"

  Jeb let loose with a wild rebel yell and galloped across the field, his actions a signal that the attack, the attack that would win them this war, was going forward. Beauregard trotted straight up the road.

  Drummer boys were up, and began to tap out the long roll. Regimental officers, those still surviving from the earlier fight, stepped forward, extolling their men.

  Several minutes later the left division stepped off, Stuart actually out front, waving his hat.

  Lee took off his hat and lowered his head.

  "Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit and the future of our cause. Thy will be done."

  Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna

  Here they come! My God, look at 'em, like on parade!" Men gathered about Grant were up, pointing. The light rain had washed the air of some of the smoke and all could now see a division advancing toward their right. A few minutes later a second division emerged, and then, as if guided by a single hand, the entire advancing line turned and obliqued to their own left, shifting the center of the advance more to the west side of town.

  Grant watched silently, nodding with approval at the precision of the movement. They were working to flank him, pull him back farther from the embattled men down at the Hornets Nest, working to envelop the road up to the Catoctin Pass.

  "Tell Banks's Division to leave the center of town and shift northwest," Grant announced, not looking back as someone galloped off with the news.

  He had fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, before the storm hit. The men barricading the streets, the entrances into the town, had stopped in their labors for a few minutes to watch the approaching wave, but now returned to work with determination, ignoring the shot that still screamed into the town, detonating against buildings, setting a house afire, smashing through eaves, brick walls, and passing clean through clap-boarded homes.

  The few civilians who had come down to watch did not need to be told what to do. They were fleeing in panic. One hysterical mother was screaming for her son. A couple of soldiers, laughing, pulled the boy down from his perch in the branches of a tree and handed him, kicking and screaming, to his mother, who ran off, dragging the boy with one hand and slapping him with the other.

  "As terrible as an army with banners ..." Ely whispered, coming up to Grant's side.

  Grant bit the end off another cigar, cupped his hands to light it, and said nothing.

  The Hornets Nest

  Here they come, boys!"

  Phil Sheridan was up among them, having come over on foot from the next cut. Bartlett did not need to be told. This time they were charging straight in at the run. Men leaned in against the barricade. The gunners, out of all ammunition, pulled out pistols, drew short sabers, or hefted ramrods.

  Robinson pushed his men forward, scarcely believing what they were about to do. A few minutes before, a lone courier had come up to Robertson, the division commander, shouting that General Lee wanted him to disengage or finish the position. The courier had then questioned him about the previous couriers.

  None had arrived, Robertson shouted. He turned, looked at the Hornets Nest, and then pointed straight at it.

  "Let's finish this now!" Robertson shouted. "Are we gonna let it be said that a bunch of darkies beat us?" A terrible roar went up in response. Robinson shook his head. They had been fought to a standstill. A rumor was coming down the line that Lee himself was about to lead the assault on the center of town to finish Grant. Shouldn't we be there? he wondered. Is there any purpose to this slaughter here other than us killing each other like animals in a frenzy?

  But the charge went forward, and, dutifully, he went forward with it. The charge rushed the barricade that was heaped with the fallen from the two previous attacks. Flashes of gunfire rippled on the other side. Robertson was actually in the lead, on foot, pointing forward, and one of the first to gain the top of the barricade.

  "Come on!" he screamed and jumped over to the other side.

  Robinson slammed in against the side of the barricade, looked up over it, caught sight of a man not ten feet away, and dropped him. Sliding back down, he reloaded. He came back up, men pushing up around him, and was up and over the barricade. In the narrow confines of the railroad cut, it was no longer combat, it was a primal act of murder on both sides. All the hatreds of the war, the causes, the fears, played out. He saw Robertson lunging for a regimental flag, a black sergeant major clubbing him down. Robinson started for the sergeant major, almost was in reach, the black sergeant major turning to face him, screaming with rage, then was shoved back as the man in front of him was bayoneted.

  Men were trampled underfoot, screaming, the fighting surging back and forth.

  On the Catoctin Road

  Henry Hunt stood with raised field glasses, watching the advance. He felt he would sell his soul now for a dozen limber wagons. His batteries were wearily coming up the long slope, nearly all with empty ammunition chests, and then, as if in answer to his unholy prayer, a couple of canvas-topped wagons came over the ridge and started to slide down pavement that was increasingly slippery from the rain.

  In the back of each wagon were two limber chests, a total of two hundred rounds of three-inch ammunition, solid bolts, case shot, and a few rounds of canister.

  He ordered two of his batteries to stop, unlimber, and runners to begin fetching the ammunition. It wasn't much, but he could certainly put down one hell of an enfilade into the left of the advancing rebel line. After several minutes, his first gun kicked back with a sharp recoil. He was still in the fight.

  Robert E. Lee nodded to the commander of the third division in the assault. The man turned, stood in his stirrups, and pointed forward.

  The wave of men set forward and as ordered did their first oblique to the left. Lee rode by their flank as they advanced, staff and cavalry escort around him.

  No rifle fire yet from the other side; the head of the advance was not more than six hundred yards from the town. His heart swelled. This could be his Austerlitz, the one battle spoken of so often at the Point. The climactic battle of decision. He could sense it now. All the fighting of the previous two months had at last led to this moment.

  Sir, we'd better get back," Ely announced.

  The advancing wall of rebs was now just four hundred yards off. Grant reluctantly nodded, deliberately pacing parallel to his line for a hundred feet so that the men would see him, then climbed up over a barricade blocking a street. These were McPherson's boys. Tough-looking, more than one with a bandaged head or arm, and they looked angry, damn angry.

  "McPherson!" Someone screamed. "Remember McPherson!"

  The cry was picked up, racing across the front, and it sent a shiver down Grant's spine. Even in death that young hero still led.

  It was hard to gain a vantage here to watch the fight or direct it. One of the problems of defending a town was that units were impossible to control once they were into the streets. He was anxious, though, about going to the west side of town. If by chance Lee did seize the town, he'd be cut off from what was left of his command if he was to the west of it.

  Ely had already found a place, leading him back one block to the burned-out depot on the east side of town. The telegraphy link there had been reestablished, and to his amazement several reporters were gathered round clamoring for some time on it, one of them from the New York Tribune. At his approach they turned and started to shout questions.

  He ignored them and followed Ely up a flight of stairs in a burned-out warehouse. Part of the second floor was intact and from there he had an excellent view of the entire assault coming in and the sweep of battle to the east as well.

  The Hornets Nest was completely hidden by smoke; to the northeast Banks, to his disgust, had conceded the National Road bridge, but at least was holding the ground above it a couple o
f hundred yards back. The rebs seemed reluctant to cross, however, for a battery of Napoleons was pounding any who tried to cross.

  The rebel advance was down to a couple of hundred yards. Some of the rebels were no longer visible, the buildings before him blocking the view.

  A spattering of fire erupted from the edge of the town and then a torrent as regiments stood up from concealment and opened up. The impact staggered the rebel advance, which slowed across a division-wide front, and then thousands of rifles were raised up, then lowered, and a tearing explosion ripped across the plain. A couple of seconds later bits of charred wood and shattered brick exploded around Grant, the reporters and hangers-on down in the street below ducking at the sound.

  The fight was now truly on as the rebel's second division, on their left, advanced another fifty yards, slowed, stopped, and fired into.Banks's reserve division, catching some in the flank as they continued to file out of the town.

  Within a minute, all ahead was cloaked in smoke, explosions flashing, huzzahs and rebel yells echoing. Never had he witnessed anything like this. Never. Smoking his cigar, hands in his pockets, he waited for the fight to play itself out.

  1:30 P.M.

  Lee continued to ride with the advancing division, ignoring the protests of Walter and others. The charge ahead was stalled; the men had opened fire too soon. Regardless of their losses they should have pressed in to fifty yards or less before firing. Through the smoke he could dimly see where hundreds were falling.

  "Straight in, boys!" Lee shouted, and he stood in his stirrups, pointing now to the western edge of the town and the open field beyond.

  "Straight in at the double, and remember—home, boys, home is just on the other side of that town!"

  He spurred Traveler forward, and with this movement the rebel yell tore down the line, men held rifles up, flags tilted forward, and the charge to cover the last three hundred yards was on.

  Traveler suddenly jerked around as if hit, and Lee felt an instant of terror. Their bond was close, going back years, and in so many fights his comrade had never been scratched.

  It was Walter, leaning over, jerking Traveler's reins, pulling his head to one side, causing him to slow and stop. Lee glared at Walter. "Let go of me!" "No, sir."

  "That is an order!"

  "No, sir! Court-martial me after this is over, sir, but no. Your place now is here, sir!"

  The cavalry escort had pushed in around Walter, many staring straight at Lee, a few too frightened to do so.

  "Listen to him, please, sir," one of them shouted, and that brought on a chorus of agreements for Walter.

  Lee found himself suddenly in tears, tears of pride for the gallant men streaming past him, shouting his name as they charged, for the sight of the flag, his flag, held high, disappearing into the smoke, the sight of Jeb Stuart, hat off, waving it high, urging the men forward, even for Walter and the love he showed at this moment.

  He lowered his head, nodded.

  "You are right, Walter,"

  Walter sighed, tears welling up.

  "Sir, forgive me. But if we lose you, we lose the cause."

  "No, Walter," Lee replied, "the cause is being decided now, by them."

  He pointed toward the wall of men surging forward.

  In his heart he knew this was the highwater mark. If they could wash over it, all would be won. If not... he dared not think of it at this moment.

  Behind him, guns were already hitched up, beginning to roll forward, ready to support the breakthrough, the lead piece coming up, slowing, waiting for the infantry ahead to surge into the town and beyond.

  1:35 P.M.

  All across that front, men of Florida and Alabama, men of Virginia and Arkansas, sensed the moment. They could see it in Lee as they charged forward; they could see it in that gallant cavalier, Jeb Stuart, shouting wildly, waving them on. They could see victory.

  Some had been marching since First Manassas or the Peninsula, fought a dozen battles, waded the Potomac many times, and then in June, with such high hopes, had those hopes fulfilled at Union Mills, when final victory was within their grasp. So many, far, far too many comrades who had marched with them, were gone ... and now the moment of final reckoning.

  Others had marched in the West and had known one bitter defeat after another; others had come from Charleston, where the war had dragged on through days of scorching heat and sweltering nights, all to join this legendary and victorious army.

  Lee was right, his cry echoing down the line, home, home was just on the other side of this town.

  The charge rolled forward, pushing into the reserve ranks of the lines before them, men exhorting each other on, screaming to go, to go, to keep going forward. The reserves joined them, swarming into the main volley line, tripping and leaping over the bodies of hundreds who had fallen in the initial exchange.

  "Come on! Charge!"

  The wild enthusiasm spread, sweeping the entire front. Once twenty-five thousand before dawn, then eighteen thousand, now barely sixteen thousand, they began to race forward, a tidal wave, officers caught up in the maelstrom, flags of regiments mingling together, an ocean of armed men bent on victory.

  At the barricades, in the ruined houses facing the charge, in the field west of town, Banks's men, tough fighters all, regardless of their dandy leader, saw it coming. They were nearly all from the West and had never known defeat. Or when defeated, they had believed in their hearts it was but a setback of the moment, and tomorrow would set it right.

  This was tomorrow. Stand here and it is over. Run and you might live, but run here and there will be another tomorrow in which you will have to face it again or, worse, live out your life wishing you had stood but a few minutes longer.

  Officers, some behind, but many now stepping out in front of the men, shouted and pleaded, "Hold, boys! You got to hold! Reload, let 'em get close. Reload!"

  Several flag bearers stepped out of the ranks, holding tattered standards aloft, shouting for the men to stay with them, to not leave the colors, and the ranks surged forward a few feet to rally round those colors.

  Ramrods were worked down fouled barrels, rifles then raised, some fixing bayonets.

  "Hold fire, boys. You'll have one good shot. Hold fire!" The wall was a hundred yards off, now breaking into a run, the ground thundering at their approach, men standing wide-eyed, officers shouting, a few throwing down rifles and turning to run, the rest ignoring them. "Hold now, boys. Hold!" "McPherson!" "Hold!"

  A few more seconds. "Take aim!"

  Nearly five thousand rifles were leveled, men crowding round each other, those few still in ranks presenting, the second rank leaning in between those in front, in most places just crowds of men behind barricades or individuals leaning out of shattered windows and doorways, the metallic sound of thousands of hammers being cocked back.

  Those in the front rank could see it, that strange illusion

  when a volley line presented directly in front of you

  and it looked as if every single rifle was aimed at you, so close you could see the open muzzle, the eye squinting down the sight. Some slowed, hesitated, others crouched low, as if bending into a storm, those who tried to slow, now pushed on by the mob surging forward behind them.

  ‘Fire!”

  Nearly five thousand one-ounce minie balls snapped across the intervening ground in little more than a tenth of a second. Many went high, but many, so many, came in low, hitting legs, stomachs, chests, arms, heads. For a blessed few there was nothingness, that final split second of sight, of looking at the man about to kill you, or gazing down, seeing grass, a clump of weeds, a flower, or a dreamlike vision of home, of someone waiting, a child running toward you ... and then whatever it was that waited beyond the nothingness.

  For many there were a few seconds, a tumbling backward, a collapsing forward, a few more pumps of the heart, a chance perhaps to realize that this world was finished, it was goodbye, goodbye to summer evenings, to the touch of a girl's lips, the embra
ce of a mother, the laughter of friends, the pleasure of a Southern evening under the stars.

  For many more it was numbness, a falling down, if blessed, no pain in those first seconds, just a numbness, then a mad tearing at a jacket, knowing you were hit, but not sure where. God, don't let it be the stomach. Take a leg, they would bargain now, I can lose a leg, not the stomach.

  And they would feebly tear at their clothes to see where the hole was.

  Yet for others there was pain, the terrible grinding agony of a thighbone shattering, collapsing, splinters of bone tearing through flesh and uniform, an arm flying back as if pulled by a giant behind them, the elbow shattered, hand nearly torn off, jawbone shot away.

  It wasn't just bullets that did this. A musket stock of the man in front would be blown off and spin into another man's face, breaking his jaw, parts of other men's bodies would punch into the those following, canteens, tin cups, cartridge boxes, twisted rifles, broken swords, pieces of shoes, belt buckles; all these became deadly projectiles as well, showering back into the third, fourth, and fifth ranks.

  The entire charge staggered. For so many cheering wildly but seconds before, all thought of cause, of glory, of victory, was gone. The world had focused down to them, to them alone. To the hole in the body they were staring at numbly, to a frantic tearing at a breast pocket to pull out a Bible, the letter of a sweetheart, the daguerreotype of a child, for at such a moment, that was truly all that mattered anymore, all thoughts of rights and wrongs, of what had taken them a thousand miles to this place ... forgotten.

  And yet, though fifteen hundred or more had fallen, there were over fourteen thousand still surging in.

  Regardless of the thrust of those pushing in from behind, it took terrible long seconds for the charge to continue forward. Men had to push around the fallen, the dying, the blinded men screaming, dropping weapons and turning to stagger back, and for nearly every man down there was another in shock, reaching down to support a falling brother, a beloved friend, a favorite officer, or just coming to a numbed stop, their face covered in blood from the man in front of them.