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 Confederate 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!
He nodded to the bandmaster standing by his side. The officer was well decked out in full dress uniform, huge bearskin cap, the afternoon sun glinting off all his gold braid. The bandmaster saluted with his staff, turned,
and held it aloft, announcing the song.
After the initial wave of a brigade had swept across and secured the heights, he had made certain that a band was ferried across, in fact every band from his old Third Corps, a couple of hundred men in total, along with dozens of drummers.
Morale was a precious thing and music was part of it. Commissary wagons had come over as well, loaded down with thousands of loaves of fresh-baked bread and hundreds of smoked hams, and were parked just beyond the rise.
Just before the head of the brigade reached the top of the crest, the bandmaster, timing things perfectly, held his silver staff aloft and brought it down emphatically. A ruffle from fifty massed drums sounded, a long roll that set corkscrews down the back of any soldier who heard it. The long roll continued, the beat of the charge, and it rolled on and on, joined by the steady beat of bass drums.
The head of the advancing column looked up. Massed to the fore were the flags of the brigade commander and all the regiments, officers at the fore. Brewster, arm still in a sling from Union Mills, grinned, clumsily drew his sword, and saluted Dan, who returned the salute.
Again the staff went up, drum major twirling it over his head and bringing it back down. An eerie moment of silence, and then he raised the staff yet again.
The drums sounded as one, the thrump, thrump, thrump of a marching beat, a flourish at the end. The massed brass sounded a flourish and then opened with the resounding chords one of the favorite marching songs of the Army of the Potomac, a song that they had once sung with fervor advancing up the Peninsula. Now, after such a long and bitter year, they were hearing it again, on this bright, sunlit afternoon that promised them a dream of glory.
Yes, we'll rally round the flag, boys, Rally once again,
Shouting the Battle Cry of Freedom!
The effect he wished, which he knew it would create, worked its magic. The men of that column looked up, a thrill going through them. At least for this moment all was forgotten, all fear of what was to come was washed away, and in an instant, thousands of voices picked up the song, shouting it to the heavens, unmindful of all the cynicism of the past, all shattered hopes, all the sad graves and missing faces in their ranks
The Union forever!
Hurrah boys hurrah!
Down with the traitor, up with the star!
Some could not even sing the words, they shouted them out, more than one with tears in their eyes, as if the dream of a long-lost love had suddenly appeared before them, that a land of promise was still before them, and in the end, this time, yes this time, it would indeed be their day.
As the column marched past, he stood in his stirrups, caught in the moment, fully mindful of the sketch artist from Harper's Weekly, Winslow Homer, who stood behind him, working furiously with charcoal to capture the moment, the photographer from Brady's by his side, hidden beneath his black curtain, as he struggled to focus his camera.
The wagons laded with fresh bread were by the side of the road, quartermaster soldiers pulling out the loaves and cut slabs of smoked ham, handing them out to the passing ranks, one to each line of four, and even the most hardened cynic, who might not be roused by the song, could at least respond to this largesse of a grateful republic.
And we '11 fill the vacant ranks
Of our brothers gone before,
Shouting the Battle Cry of Freedom!
Cheer echoed onto cheer, caps were off, rifles held aloft, battle-scarred flags fluttering in the afternoon breeze.
The column pressed on, heading south, heading back into the war.
Dan Sickles turned to his staff. "My God," he gasped, "this time we will win!"
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
August 18,1863 5:00 P.M.
He's done what?"
Grant came to his feet, his camp chair falling over behind him. Ely Parker held the telegram and Grant snatched it, scanning the few lines, a relay of a message from a reporter with the New York Tribune, that Sickles's army was across the Susquehanna and moving south.
"I've already sent a query back," Ely replied. "The telegraph lines started buzzing with it just minutes ago. I'll see what more I can find."
Grant turned and slammed his fist on the table. General Ord, who had been sitting quietly with him, waiting for dispatches as to the running fight unfolding with Hampton forty miles to the southeast shook his head.
"Always said that son of a bitch would go off half-cocked the moment he had the chance."
Grant said nothing, struggling to rein in his temper. It had been a tense day. The raid by Hampton had severed communications down along the Susquehanna. That was to be expected; he was surprised Lee had not tried something like this before now, but the sudden dropping of the lines out of Perryville just after midnight had baffled him. He had assumed that some rebel sympathizers, working in concert with Hampton, had been the culprits, and it had been a bit unnerving. Though he assumed Lee would not try an all-out assault on Washington, nothing in war was ever assured and he had silently fretted ever since Ely had awakened him with the news just before dawn.
Now he knew. Damn it, he knew.
"I bet he cut the lines himself," Ord said, as if reading Grant's mind. "Get across and halfway to Baltimore before you can even hope to call him back. Then what are you going to do?"
General Logan came into the tent and Grant was aware that out in the headquarters compound there was a real stir, men running back and forth, shouting comments about Sickles.
Ord took the coffeepot off the small stove and poured himself a drink, looking over at Grant "Well, is it true, sir?"
"I'm not sure yet. Only a newspaper report. But yes, I think it's true. He knows I can't reach him, not with Hampton cutting up and the lines down."
Ely came back into the tent, holding several more telegrams, and handed them to Grant.
All were the same. Reports from the Associated Press, one from the Philadelphia Inquirer, complete to a brief description of bands playing and flags flying as the Third Corps set off just after dawn, the rest of the army set to follow.
It was true. Damn it!
He tossed the telegrams on the table for Ord and McPherson to read and stepped out of the tent. At the sight of him the dozens of officers milling about froze. The look on his face stopped all of them in their tracks.
"I think we have better things to do than run about like a bunch of old housewives chasing a headless chicken."
No one spoke, but within seconds the area around his tent was a ghost town. He struck a match on the tent post and puffed a cigar to life.
Grant had studied the maps till they were burned into his memory; he knew what would unfold. First it was dependent on Lee far more than anything Sickles did. If, as Grant assumed, the attack on Washington was nothing more than a feint to try and draw one or both of them out before they were fully ready, Lee had indeed succeeded. If Washington was still his main goal, which Grant had doubted all along, Lee would still have two days to do his worst. He would trade Baltimore for Washington; the taking and securing of that town would be too much for Sickles to resist, and that would delay his advance even longer.
But no, Lee wanted to destroy the Union armies, not to cut his own army's guts out trying to take a city. It was exactly how he would do it. It was the mistake that McClellan and all the others had never fully grasped. It was always Lee; Richmond was secondary and would fall once Lee was removed. If McClellan had gone into the Peninsula with that in mind and acted aggressively, all of this would be moot now.
Lee wanted the Army of the Potomac, and now Sickles was heading straight at him.
There was now, as well, a darker thought. Had Sickles acted alone, or had someone goaded him? Surely it wasn't Lincoln. Grant found that impossible to accept. They had given each other their word and lived to it.
Stanton?
But why?
Why risk all now, when in another three weeks everything would be in place, and with a united front he could have advanced, combined with the g
arrison in Washington outnumbering Lee at more than two, perhaps even three to one with rifles in the held.
There was no sense in wasting thought on it now. All of that was now out the window. He would have to start afresh as of this moment.
Regardless of its leadership, Grant had no doubt that the Army of the Potomac was a hard-fighting lot All the rivalry between East and West aside, they were men that could sustain ten, fifteen thousand casualties in a day, something that he had seen only at Shiloh, and then turn around and do it again. Approximately forty-five thousand men. If given good ground and an open fight, one that Sickles did not bungle, they just might make a damn good accounting of themselves. But only if Sickles did not bungle.
Of course he'd send the order out to recall. There was a chance he could reach Sickles before nightfall, and under pain of relieving him from command pull him back from this folly. But he knew in his heart that that would be an exercise in futility. The man was too crafty. Grant knew that no general was entirely above playing the game at times, making sure a dispatch was lost or a telegraph line cut yet again.
No, he would have to recast all on the assumption that Lee and Sickles would meet, maybe as early as tomorrow afternoon, definitely within two days.
He stepped back into the tent.
"Ely, write up a telegram of recall."
"Send it on the open wire?"
Grant hesitated.
No, he couldn't do that. It'd be in every paper in the country within two hours, revealing dissension in the ranks, confusion, and could even trigger a panic. If Stanton had directly ordered Sickles to advance, especially based upon information of which Grant was not aware, perhaps if Lee had indeed attacked and Grant sent a recall, it would bring into the open a confrontation that Lincoln would have to address on the spot If Washington was on the verge of falling and he ordered Sickles back, it could be a disaster, even though he knew the chance was remote.
He shook his head.
Grant Comes East - Civil War 02 Page 38