Long before dawn, just north of Lancaster, the brigade had split up, two regiments turning to the northwest to probe toward Harrisburg, one regiment east, along the track of the Philadelphia and Columbia railroad toward Downington and West Chester, the rest of his command in the middle, moving toward Reading. The regiment going east, the Jeff Davis Regiment, was at this point nothing more than a light raid and probe with the intent of spreading panic in Philadelphia and engaging in some bridge-burning and train-wrecking.
But now, as he watched the courier's approach, he felt a tightening in his stomach. Something was up. The three of them came on fast, at the gallop, and reined in, saluting.
"Sir, we got Yankee cavalry, ten miles off."
Wade forced a smile. He had hoped they'd have another day of it before the Yankees finally reacted in their typical slow and leisurely fashion.
"Well, it's about time. We've been here a day and a half without a sight of one of them."
One of the couriers shook his head.
"Sir. It's not just a patrol. Looks to be damn near a brigade. Colonel Baker says he's going to have to pull back before them."
"How far?"
"When we were told to find you, it was about ten miles to the west of here. We were moving toward Harrisburg, as ordered. The civilians were damn closed-mouthed, wouldn't give us a word of information, though one old codger just grinned and said we were gonna wind up like rabbits in a snare, that the whole area is crawling with Yankees. The main road we were on, you could see where one hell of a lot of troopers had been marching a day or two earlier, a couple of orchards just stripped of apples, one big hay field trampled down. The farmer that owned the orchard and field was boiling mad, said that ten thousand or more Yankees had marched through two days ago from Harrisburg, then turned around and marched back, cleaning him out"
He took that in. Why? That was before he crossed the river. Drilling perhaps? Keeping the men in shape?
"Just around sunup we seen them coming," the messenger continued. "The country "was open, Colonel Baker had a good vantage point, you could just make out the church spires of what we figure might be Harrisburg, and then they just came storming out on to the fields a couple miles away, filling every lane. A couple thousand at least."
Wade opened up his map case and pulled out the sketches of the region that Jed Hotchkiss had prepared for him. His forces were spread thin, and now he wondered. There had been absolutely no resistance so far. To spread out was routine at this point cast the net wide until they hit something.
If he drew an oblong box set on one point, he was in the middle. The bottom point was their river crossing twenty-five miles away, the left point Harrisburg, the north point Reading, the east point toward West Chester.
"Any identification? Who are they?"
"Sir, we picked up a couple of deserters from the Nineteenth Corps; they were hiding in a barn not five miles from here. Said they were fed up and going home. Seems like they were the ones out on that march and these two snuck off."
"Nineteenth?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did they say where they came from?"
"Harrisburg."
Damn.
So he had one piece of the puzzle that Lee had sent him for, if the deserters were to be believed. "Did you take them prisoner?" "No sir, we let them go." "Why?"
"One was so damn sick, sir, he was near dead; the other was just a scared boy, the sick man's young brother. We took their parole and left them. Colonel Baker, though, felt we should believe them."
Then the Nineteenth was in Harrisburg. And that spoke volumes.
"Anything else?"
"No sir, nothing we saw. Like I said, a few farmers said that Yankees have been marching up and down the roads the last few weeks. Carrying all equipment, the men said they were drilling. We found a farm boy wearing a Yankee cap with the corps insignia for the Thirteenth, said he found it after some troops marched by, heading back toward Harrisburg. One woman we met just before seeing the Yankees said she was born in South Carolina and she did sound like it Married a Yankee, God save her. She said that no civilians are allowed anywhere near Harrisburg, all the roads are closed off with military guards, and you need a pass to get in or out."
That was to be expected. The Northern newspapers had openly reported that bit of information and complained bitterly about it and about the imposition of martial law on not just the city but the entire surrounding county.
"Sir, Colonel Baker says he's pulling back and he'd like some support."
Wade nodded. The Second South Carolina was less than a half hour up the road, heading toward Reading behind the First North Carolina. He'd turn the Second around now. But the First? If they could at least get to Sinking Springs and destroy some track and telegraph lines there on the main route between Harrisburg and Reading, it would be a major accomplishment. He had hoped that Baker could actually close on the outskirts of Harrisburg while he held the center here and moved on Reading. Now that was in doubt.
He hesitated. Concentrate? Suppose Baker was overreacting? Perhaps this cavalry force was nothing more than second-rate militia that would scatter when faced with a real charge?
But if not, if I let them swing behind me, cut me off from the river, and they are seasoned troopers, it could be a problem.
And yet Stuart had faced far worse numbers. He had ridden clean around the entire Army of the Potomac, raised havoc, gathered intelligence, and lost only a few score men.
No. Don't hesitate now.
"Let Baker fall back here. I'll keep Cobb's legion here and I'll stay as well. Tell Baker to fall back and lead them on. We'll give them a good drubbing here."
The couriers saluted, turned, and started back west.
Wade watched them leave and turned to look at the sun, now warm and golden in the morning sky. It would most likely be a hot day, but the weather was fair, the roads were good, the farmland was rich. He was farther north than any Confederate cavalryman had ever dreamed possible only six months ago, and he would make the most of it. Beat these men before mid-afternoon, then on to Reading. A fire in that rail yard would most likely be a sight to behold, outshining anything Jeb could ever hope to boast about.
In Front of Washington
August 18,1863 7:00 a.m.
"It had come.
General Lee found it hard to contain his excitement. For more than a year he had laid out dozens of such plans. Some had come to fruition, many had disappeared and been forgotten. For once communications were on the Confederate side. The telegraph line from the south bank of the Susquehanna clear down to his headquarters before Fort Stevens had been fully restored. Extra wire had been found in Baltimore along with some telegraphers who had volunteered to help string a line straight to his headquarters. It was a luxury he had never operated with before, to have instant communications with scouts stationed almost seventy miles away. He marveled at the new potentials he saw before him.
The first report had come in at three in the morning, Walter interrupting his sleep with the message that significant activity was going on along the north bank of the river. Steam engines were firing up their boilers. An hour before dawn the gunboats on the river had come up close to shore, and minutes later a tug pushed in a barge loaded with a regiment of troops to secure the bank. As ordered, his light screen of cavalry had traded a few shots at long range, then appeared to flee. Just before dawn the first heavy ferry had crossed, carrying nearly a thousand men.
The forward station had just closed down, the last message … Dozens of ships moving on river, infantry, artillery, cavalry. Third Corps. Flags of Fifth Corps identified on heights of north bank. Must abandon station.
As he had anticipated, the Third Corps was in the lead. That was a vanity he expected of Sickles. The man had played true to form.
There had been no movements or sightings of troops attempting to come down the Chesapeake, to reinforce either Washington or the garrison at Fort McHenry. That had been his one great conce
rn, that Lincoln would play the card of caution and reinforce the garrison of Washington. If the Army of the Potomac had transferred here, en masse, secure behind the fortifications, it might have presented him with a strategic dilemma, a field force of maybe fifty thousand, positioned closer to Richmond than his own army, with Grant threatening from the rear. No, Sickles had played the card he wanted. He imagined Grant would be beside himself with anger. "Walter."
As always his adjutant was waiting and was under the awning within seconds. Lee looked up at him, smiled.
Walter scanned the latest, confirming that the Army of the Potomac was beginning to ship over artillery. This was no raid or feint; it was the real thing at last.
"It's not a reconnaissance," Walter said excitedly. "They're moving. He'll have the entire army over by tomorrow morning and will be on the march."
Lee nodded.
"Send for Generals Longstreet, Hood, and Beauregard. I want this army on the march, as planned."
Walter, grinning, ran from the tent.
General Lee sat back in his chair. He felt utterly confident, a confidence that had been shaken at Fort Stevens and even by the troubling conversation with Benjamin and Rabbi Rothenberg. The game was afoot again, he was back in his element, and all doubts were put aside. The trap had been sprung as he had planned. By midday, his entire army would be on the march, streaming north through the night. By late tomorrow he would hit Sickles with everything he had, unless the man showed caution, dug in on the banks of the Gunpowder River, and held back.
But he knew this opponent, as he had known all the others. Sickles would not hesitate. He would see his chance for glory, to upstage Grant, to take Baltimore back. He would come on fast.
It would now be a footrace. Now it was a matter of weather and luck, both of which had rarely failed the Army of Northern Virginia in any of its campaigns.
Near Hinkleton, Pennsylvania
East Bank of the Conestoga River
August 18,1863 3:00 p.m.
Wade Hampton ducked as the shell detonated only a dozen feet away, showering him with dirt. Standing back up, he saw one of his staff not moving, a glance showing that the boy was dead, a shell fragment having sliced into his temple. He looked away. There was no time for that now.
Raising his held glasses, he scanned the road they had just retreated down only minutes before. These damn Pennsylvania farmers had made the bridge spanning the river of stone, impossible to destroy. On the far side of the stream, a quarter mile away, hundreds of Yankee troopers were swarming out to either flank, riding hard, while in the center a regiment or more were dismounted, coming in on foot Already the snap whine of their carbine Are was whisking past him, the angry, beelike buzz of.52-caliber rounds cutting the air.
Along the banks of the creek his men were spreading out as well, horse holders moving to the rear, dismounted troopers, most armed with muzzle-loading rifles, a few with the precious Sharps carbines their opponents carried. His own battery of horse artillery was up, pounding away, struggling to keep at bay the two batteries of Yankee artillery shelling the line.
The battle had been a running engagement for the last fifteen miles, opening with skirmishing just before noon, and then a full-blown run of ten miles back to this river. He had led half a dozen counter-charges. In the past one such charge would have sent them reeling, half the Yankees falling off their horses in the rout
This was different, damn different. The Yankees fell back in order as each charge advanced, and then his boys would hit a wall of fire from dismounted troopers behind a fence row, an embankment, a tree lot that would empty a dozen saddles, and he would be forced to fall back. All the time, flanking forces, at least a regiment in strength to north or south, would range out, trying to pincer in, forcing him to fall back yet again.
Focusing his field glasses on the road, he saw what appeared to be a general and his staff, directly in the middle of the road, arrogant, unmoving as a shell detonated nearby. No one he recognized. It must be that Grierson, the raider from Mississippi and Louisiana that the papers had made such a fuss over.
Behind him the last of the Jeff Davis Regiment was up, recalled from its ride toward Downington, but the horses were blown even as they arrived to join their comrades from Cobb's legion and the First and Second South Carolina. In fact, all his horses were blown after this running four-hour battle.
They had taken a few prisoners in the last skirmish before pulling back to the river. The Yankee troopers were arrogant, lean, as weather-beaten as his own. Men from an Illinois regiment boasted that Grierson had sworn an oath to entertain Hampton for dinner before shipping him to the prison camp at Elmira.
The prisoners, still under escort, were sitting nearby, now watching the battle with detached amusement, the way prisoners did when they knew they were safe. He could hear them calmly discussing the spreading fight like professionals, pointing out with glee their own regiment, advancing on foot in the center, the flanking forces even now ranging far outward, a couple of miles away, to the north and south, dust the only indicator of their movements.
He walked over toward them and they looked up. Their leader, a lieutenant, got to his feet and with just the slightest look of mocking disdain offered a salute, which Wade did not return.
"Getting hot for ya, General?" a sergeant nursing a wounded hand asked, looking up at him, shifting a chaw of tobacco in his mouth.
"Were you part of the raid with Grierson out west?" Wade asked.
The lieutenant grinned.
"Sure as hell was. Rode from one end of Mississippi to the other in three weeks. Never seen so many rebels running in my entire life. Almost as many as we seen running today."
"You damn Yankee." One of Wade's staff started to step forward, and the lieutenant eyed him coldly. Wade extended his hand, motioning for his man to stop.
The wounded sergeant chuckled and grinned.
"You ain't facing the Army of the Potomac today, General. You're getting a taste of Ulysses S. Grant and his men from the western armies," the sergeant said.
Wade nodded thoughtfully. These men were different, very different, more like his own even, the way they looked in threadbare uniforms, the sergeant with a patch on his knee, the lieutenant's hat faded, sweat soaked, his uniform jacket just a private's sack coat with shoulder bars. There was no Army of the Potomac spit and polish here. They seemed to take an easy pride in themselves.
"How does it feel to be prisoners?" one of Wade's staff snapped.
"Oh, not for long we reckon. The ball's just started, General," the lieutenant replied, and the three men sitting behind him nodded. "It's a long way back across the river for you, isn't it? Kinda figure we'll be hosting you in a day or two."
"If crossing the river is even our intent."
The lieutenant just smiled and did not reply.
"You'll be well treated. I'll have a surgeon check your sergeant. If at the end of the day there's prisoners to be exchanged, I'll see you're passed back through the lines."
"Thank you, sir," the lieutenant replied and this time the man's arrogance dropped a bit
Wade started to turn away. He caught the eye of the sergeant, who continued to grin while staring at him, as if the man held a deep secret. The look was momentarily unnerving. These men were not beaten, not by a long stretch.
Another shell shrieked overhead, the wind of its passage buffeting Wade. Those gunners were good, damn good, ignoring the counter-battery fire for the moment, concentrating on his own knot of staff and observers, the other guns pounding the approach to the bridge.
He surveyed his line. The battle front was more than half a mile across. Troops had been detached to the flanks to cover fords, burn any bridges, and keep an eye on the flanking force. Already he could sense that their main effort was shifting southward, an obvious move to try and cut him off from running back toward the Susquehanna.
Like hell. It was time Grierson and this upstart army from the West were taught a lesson on how Confeder
ate cavalry in the East could fight and knock some of the overbearing confidence out of them. He would dig in here, along the river, and let them come. By evening, the first North Carolina heading toward Reading should be back, hitting them in the flank. He would hold right here and let them try and take this position, then, when the timing was right, mount up and counter-charge, driving them back toward Harrisburg.
Lee had sent him across the river to gather intelligence and sow panic. That mission had yet to be accomplished. By tomorrow he'd have Grierson bloodied and on the run. If this was to be the opening fight between the Army of Northern Virginia and this Grant and his so-called Army of the Susquehanna, it damn well better be a Confederate victory, no matter what the cost.
Havre de Grace, Maryland
August 18,1863 3:30 p.m.
The army, his army, was on the march. He had picked a spot atop the river bluff, sitting astride his charger, the road from the ferry dock weaving up from the river's edge. The river itself was swarming with activity, dozens of ships moving back and forth, the huge ferries of the railroad, each one capable of moving a thousand men, an entire battery of guns, or a hundred troopers and their mounts. Dozens of smaller boats, some of them side-wheel or stem-wheel steamers, others barges pushed by steam tugs, were pushing across as well, again loaded with troops. One of the two big railroad ferries was bringing over twenty or more supply wagons with their teams of mules.
So far it was all going without a hitch. A few horses had panicked and gone into the river, one man was reported dead drunk and falling off a boat loaded down with pack and rifle.
Engineering troops from New York were already hard at work, throwing down split logs to corduroy the road up from the docks, and a thousand contraband laborers were working beside them, many of them having worked on the riverboats and ferries repairing docks damaged by rebel raiders the month before after the mad retreat from Baltimore.
A serpentine column of men were coming up the slope, boys of his old Second Division, Humphrey's men, Brewster's brigade, New Yorkers!
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