Grant Comes East cw-2

by Newt Gingrich

  It was going to be an interesting day, a most interesting day.

  One Half Mile South of Gunpowder Falls, Maryland

  August 19,1863 Noon

  Jeb Stuart, hat off, the heat intense, trotted over to the light horse batteries that were drawn up across the road looking down toward the Gunpowder River. On the far bank, several Union batteries were deploying. His own guns were already at work, shelling the Union guns. The skirmish line of dismounted troopers, pushing forward, was thickening as he committed his reserves from Jenkins's and Fitz Lee's old brigades. The men were confident, with casualties so far light. They knew the game they were about to play, and they would play it with relish.

  Chew's, Hart's, and Griffin's Maryland batteries were hard at work shelling the opposite slope and the approach down the gentle slope to the Gunpowder River. To add additional punch, a heavy twenty-pounder battery of Parrott guns, captured and kept in reserve at Baltimore, had come up as well, their deeper, throaty roar distinctive on the battlefield. On the opposite slope regiments of Yankee infantry were deploying out into battle lines, ready to surge forward and charge the valley.

  He was relishing the moment Independent command, far ahead of Lee and the infantry, a holding action, their old enemy in front of them again. This was going to be interesting.

  The first regimental volley sounded, a Yankee regiment on the far bank of the stream letting fly at long range at his own troopers in skirmish line. The men saw the puff of smoke, dived for the ground; several were hit but the rest stood up and pushed forward to the bank looking down on the stream. The battle was beginning to unfold.

  He looked back down the road toward Baltimore. Pickett was supposed to have come out just after dawn. Lee did not want to spring the trap too soon, so this would take careful timing. And yes, in the distance he could see the dust boiling up on the road; the infantry support was coming.

  Gunpowder Falls, Maryland

  August 19, 1863 12:30 p.m.

  Dan Sickles raised his field glasses yet again, scanning the opposite bank of the river, the shallow valley dividing the two forces. It was beginning!

  It was still dismounted rebel cavalry over there, but reinforced now by a heavy battery, most likely brought up from Baltimore. The boys from his beloved Third Corps were shaking out from marching columns to lines. With the thump of artillery, the distant rattle of musketry and carbine fire, the veterans of the old army knew that the elephant was waiting. They were to see battle again, and here, six weeks after Union Mills, was a chance to restore their pride. Some were nervous, wide-eyed, especially the new ninety-day regiments, but the old hardcore looked ready, and as they reached the crest, swinging from marching formation into battle front, they appraised it professionally, a tough advance, but against dismounted cavalry it might not be so bad, and the ground was shallower than Union Mills.

  David Birney, the commander handpicked by him to run the Third Corps, rode up.

  "So it's starting, is it?" Birney cried. "Looks that way. Stuart turned about a half hour ago. He chose some good ground."

  "Think there's infantry behind him?" "Maybe. The garrison in Baltimore might come up, though I'd have assumed they would have waited in the fortifications. If it's the garrison, it just might be Pickett; word is that he was left behind." Sickles pointed to the distant dust on the road heading from Baltimore.

  "I'd dearly love to thrash that arrogant bastard," Birney announced.

  "Well, David, now is your chance. Force this stream; I don't want to get tangled up here. Send in the First Division."

  "What about Sykes and the Fifth Corps to the north?" "They're coming out of Bel Air now, reporting the same thing, intense cavalry skirmishing." Dan shook his head.

  "I want Baltimore by dark. Lee must be moving by now. If he gets into that city and the fortifications, it will be hard to drag him out. We've got to be in there by dark." He did not add that sooner or later Parker would show up with the order of recall, and it was crucial to have Baltimore in his pocket or it would indeed be hard to press on to continue the action.

  Birney rode off and within a.couple of minutes bugles sounded, the cry going down the line of the hard-fighting First Division, Third Corps, to prepare for a frontal advance. The fight was definitely on.

  Ellicott City, Maryland

  Headquarters Army of Northern Virginia

  August 19,1863 1:00 p.m.

  The heat was becoming staggering as General Lee allowed himself a few minutes' break under a grove of pine trees, gladly accepting a glass of lemonade offered up by an elderly woman, the pitcher cold, dripping with moisture.

  He felt exhaustion coming on after a sleepless night in the saddle, broken only by a half hour nap in a shaded glen just before dawn. The men of Beauregard's corps were marching past, all chatter having long since ceased, the roadside littered with cast-off debris.

  His huge train of artillery was moving at a good pace, the roads well paved, veteran batteries mingled in with newly created units manned mainly by hastily trained infantry. Gun after gun rolled by, the horses lathered in sweat as they strained at the harnesses of Napoleons, three-inch ordnance rifles, ten-pound Parrotts, limber wagons, and forge wagons. Here would be a killing punch, well over two hundred guns, stretching for miles on the road. Across fields and narrow farm lanes to either side of the main road columns of infantry pushed forward, a tidal wave of humanity on the march.

  The latest dispatch from Longstreet had just come in. The action was opening up on Gunpowder River, just as he had planned. If I had been forced to defend Baltimore, Sickles might be discouraged from attacking, and, worst of all, circle to the west, there to wait for Grant to come down, pinning the Army of Northern Virginia in the city. This fight had to be fought north of the city, while Sickles was alone.

  He had authorized his generals to spread the word to the troops, to share with them, as Napoleon did before Austerlitz, what his plan now was, and that confidence was reflected as they pushed on. He had seen stragglers, most of them humbled, apologetic, asking but a few minutes to catch their breath, more than one of them staggering back up to their feet and falling back in as they saw him ride past.

  His army continued to press on.

  Gunpowder River, Maryland

  August 19, 1863 1:45 pm.

  George Pickett, it was again the dream. His heavy division, reinforced by the two brigades that had missed Union Mills because of being used as garrison troops, swung out into battle line on the double, ignoring the long-range artillery fire bursting in the air, an occasional round plowing into the ranks.

  It would be another Taneytown for him, and he gloried in it He understood his orders, to give ground slowly, but first he would at least let his heavy division show its mettle and tear into whatever the Yankees might throw at him; there'd be time enough later to fall back. Sword raised, he shouted for his Virginians to advance.

  The Battle of Gunpowder River, Maryland

  August 19,1863 2:00 p.m.

  David Birney led the first division of his corps down into the shallow, open valley, sweeping around mill ponds, men plunging into the cool stream below mill dams and storming up the open slope. Atop the crest, the line of cavalry troopers fired a final volley, dozens of men dropping from the impact The attacking Union division barely wavered. They had taken far worse on many another battlefield.

  The charge moved up the slope on the double, artillery fire shrieking overhead as a fourth Union battery deployed on the slope behind them. Stuart's men pulled back fast before the relentless advance of the Union battle line sweeping half a mile of front.

  August 19,1863

  2:10 pm.

  Lo Armistead, sword raised high, led his brigade forward. His regiments held the center of the line, three of them advancing shoulder to shoulder; fifty yards behind were the other two regiments of his brigade, acting as immediate reserve, red St Andrew's crosses held high, the dark blue flags of Virginia beside the scarlet banners. A hundred yards behind them
the two reserve brigades of Pickett's division advanced in similar formation.

  He turned, walking backward for a moment, the sight sending a chill down his spine. The battle front of the division covered nearly a half-mile front, the lines undulating, breaking up for a moment as the men scrambled over fences, swinging around rough ground, passing a farmhouse and barnyard, pigs and goats scattering as troops knocked down a pen. Long-range shells from the Union batteries fluttered overhead, bursting in the air, plowing up ground, one shell exploding over his own Ninth Virginia. Several men dropped.

  It was hot, damnably hot. Sweat poured down his face. He caught glimpses of individuals in the rank, some of the men grinning, their eyes afire with that strange light that imbued soldiers going into a fight; others looked frightened, features pale. Rifle barrels glistened in the glare of the August sun; the air filled with the sound of tramping feet, the clatter of tin cups banging on canteens, the distant shouts of officers and file closers, yelling for the men to keep their alignment, drummers marking the beat.

  He turned, looking forward again. Cavalry troopers, some mounted, some on foot, were streaming back, a few turning to fire, smoke drifting across the field; the advancing and retreating Confederate lines passed through each other. The infantry offered some taunts, good-natured in general, about the cavalry getting out of the way now that the real fighting had begun, the troopers offering in mm shouts of encouragement.

  Now he could see them, a wall of blue, coming up out of a low valley a quarter mile away, their battle line spreading out, flags marking regiments, a dozen flags at least, a division-wide front. He scanned the lines. This was going to be a straight-out, head-on collision, no fancy maneuvering, a knockdown battle out in the open. The ground a couple of hundred yards ahead dropped down into a shallow ravine. It looked to be marshy ground with high pasture grass, with the Yankees now advancing on to the slope on the other side of the marsh.

  Both sides closed, coming straight at each other, their combined rate of advance covering over two hundred yards a minute. What had been a wall of blue was now emerging into individuals, officers out front, flag bearers holding colors aloft The range was now about three hundred yards. The ground ahead was sloping down. Lo looked over at Pickett, who was still mounted, in the lead. Pickett caught his eye, held his sword out sideways, signaling a halt

  "Battalions! Halt!"

  The cry went down the length of the front Kemper's Brigade to the left flank continued on for another twenty yards or so before they finally came to a stop. Across the gentle, open swale, the Yankee division was coming to a halt as well, range roughly a hundred and fifty yards.

  On both sides across that open pasture, all could see what was about to happen. A loud murmuring rose up, some cursing, a few laughing, many praying. Lo, trying to maintain some dignity, moved back into the ranks, even as he shouted for the brigade to take aim.

  A metallic ringing echoed, the slapping of the brass fittings on rifle slings as weapons were taken from shoulders, held high, then lowered into firing position. The clicking of thousands of hammers as the.58-caliber Springfields and Enfields were cocked.

  From across the field, the Union troops were enacting the same ritual, gun barrels flashing in the sunlight.

  A long, drawn-out pause, which was only a few seconds but to all seemed an eternity, some rifle barrels held stock-still, men planting their feet firmly, drawing careful aim, second rank leaning forward, poising their weapons between the left and right shoulders of the men in front of them in the first rank.

  "Fire!"

  The thundering, tearing volley raced across the front line, thousands of rifles igniting, a blinding sheet of smoke boiling out thousands of one-ounce bullets shrieking downrange at nine hundred feet per second, and almost at the same instant the Union volley swept in, the air buzzing with bullets, a sharp eye able to pick out piercing eddies in the smoke, marking the passage of an invisible round.

  Scores of men dropped, some collapsing soundlessly; others picked up and knocked into the second rank, some screaming, cursing as they doubled over or, dropping their rifles, grabbed at a broken arm, or a thigh now gushing blood from a slashed artery.

  "Reload!"

  These were veterans, they had done this ritual before; they pulled open cartridge box flaps, drew paper cartridges even as they let their rifle butts drop to the ground. Tear cartridge with teeth, pour powder, push bullet into muzzle, draw ramrod. Thousands of arms were now reaching up, pushing rounds down, some resetting ramrods in the rifle stock, others slamming them into the ground to stand now like iron stakes. Raise rifle, half cock, pull out percussion cap, set cap, bring weapon to the shoulder, signaling they were ready.

  "Volley fire, present!"

  Again thousands of rifles were poised, another thundering crash. The Yankees, several seconds slower, volleyed in return, more men dropping, though not as many as before, both sides masked by smoke, the flashing of pinpoint lights in the yellow battle fog the only indicator that their opponents were still there.

  Yet another volley and a volley in return.

  "Independent fire at will!" The cry raced up and down the line.

  Within a minute it was a continual roar of musketry, the faster loading three or more times a minute, the slower at two rounds a minute, some now fumbling, forgetting to prime with a percussion cap, others pushing the bullet down before pouring in the powder.

  Men dropped, the file closer's cry a continual chant- "Close on the center, close on the center!" — while officers screamed for them to keep pouring it in. The continual roar was deafening, artillery from both sides throwing in both shell and solid shot, men screaming, crying, cursing, praying, shouting incoherently as the battle frenzy seized them. Lines might surge forward a dozen feet as if a spontaneous charge was about to be unleashed, then be swept back, as if an invisible wall of death awaited any man who stepped one foot farther.

  No one could see, all were now firing blindly; the experienced, those with a cold logic still in their mind, took then-time, aiming low, searching for a flash of an enemy gun muzzle in the smoke, then swinging to aim at it Here and there the smoke would part enough to show a flag on the other side of the field, and then a storm of shot would rake into it the banner dropping, coming back up, going down again, the horror of this hitting on both sides, so that around each regimental color guard a dozen or more men would be sprawled out dead or writhing in agony.

  Clips of meadow grass seemed to leap into the air as bullets cut in low, the grass leaping up as if an angry bee were slashing through the stalks at blinding speed. An artillery shell, winging in low as well, would plow up a terrifying furrow of grass and dirt, then plow into a volley line, bowling men over.

  Men's eyes stung from the blinding smoke, faces streaked black from the mixture of black powder, sweat and saliva. Uniforms were caked with dirt, powder, sweat, blood.

  Lo stalked up and down behind his regiments, saying nothing, watching as the volley lines gradually contracted on the center, the fallen dropping almost in an orderly row, wounded streaming back to the rear. Twenty or more rounds per man had been fired, and still there was no slackening of fire from the other side. It was impossible to see; all was blinded by smoke, the only indicator of the enemy presence the continual buzz of bullets slashing overhead, the cries of his own men being hit the dim pinpoints of light from the other side of the pasture.

  He heard a shouted command to the rear, looked back, and saw Garnett's brigade, which had been advancing behind him, filing off to the left on the double, moving to extend the line, whether to flank or to prevent being flanked he could not tell. He caught a glimpse of Pickett galloping past

  It had been going on for at least fifteen minutes now, a stand-up, knock-down brawl. He had heard the orders, to engage after they crossed the Gunpowder River, hold briefly, then start to fall back, luring them in. Shouldn't they start?

  "General Pickett!" he shouted, trying to be heard above the thunder of battle, but
George rode on, standing in his stirrups, eyes afire with that strange light of battle.

  The rate of fire from his own line was slackening, not through lack of will, but after such sustained fire guns were fouling, barrels so caked with the residue of black powder that men were grunting as they pushed down on their ramrods. Some had stopped shooting, were pouring precious water from canteens down the barrels, their guns so hot that steam would come bubbling out as they then hurriedly ran a swab down the bore, filthy black water cascading out of the barrel. Inverting the gun would make the gluey mess dribble out-then another swab to wipe it dry, pour in another round, and resume firing.

  And still the enemy fire slashed in.

  August 19,1863 2:45 p.m.

  Birney stalked the firing line, a Pennsylvania regiment in front of him standing solid, musket fire flashing up and down the line. To his right he could see another rebel brigade swinging into battle front, extending the line. Already his own Second Division was racing behind the volley line on the double, men panting and staggering in the heat lead regiments shaking out from column into battle front, rifles held high as they formed. A roaring volley erupted: Each regiment fired as it came into place. "Birney!"

  It was Dan Sickles, riding up on his black charger, staff trailing behind, the flag of the commander of the Army of the Potomac held high. He pushed his way through the column of the Second Division, the men cheering him as they raced by, Sickles standing in his stirrups, hat off.

  "Give it to 'em! Remember Union Mills and give it to 'em!" Sickles roared.

  He came up to Birney, grinning.

  "How is it here?" Sickles shouted.

  "Damn hot, sir. That's a full division across this pasture."