Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 (39 page)

Judah held up his hand.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

Lee sighed and nodded.

"Not your fault. I am tired, just so very tired as well."

"General, I think you need to get some rest."

"Yes, sir, I do," Lee replied. "Again, no offense taken by your comments."

Judah stood up, bowed slightly, and left.

Lee looked over to his tent, the flap open. He went in, his servant having set a candle and his Bible on a table by the cot. Lee sat down, struggled to take his boots off, and then picked up his Bible and thumbed through it, turning to the One Hundred Forty-fourth Psalm.

"Blessed be the Lord, my strength, which teacheth my hands to war...."

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna 9:00 P.M.

A h
ard day for Edward ," Phil Sheridan said, pouring another cup of coffee and offering it to Grant. Grant watched Ord walk over to his horse, mount, and ride off.

"Yes, a hard day," Grant replied, sipping at the coffee, then setting it down to pick up a stick and resume the whittling that had taken it from a couple of feet in length to a last few inches. Shavings piled up around his feet.

"How's the headache, sir?"

Grant raised his gaze and stared at Phil without responding, at that moment teaching Sheridan one of the taboos of this headquarters: when the general had a migraine, no one, except for Ely, should ever dare ask about it.

Grant resumed whittling and Phil was silent, staring into the campfire. A mild breeze stirred. To the south, there were lightning flashes but it looked as if the storm would skirt by them, perhaps soaking the boys down along the Potomac.

'Tomorrow, I want you to shift one of your divisions down in support of Ord. He has no reserve left."

"Which one."

"The colored one. That's your reserve, isn't it?" "Yes, sir."

"And they sat the day out, so they're fresh." "Yes, sir, but they've never seen battle." "Time they did."

He finished whittling, tossing the fragment of stick into the fire, hesitated, then drew out another cigar and lit it, offering the case over to Phil, who gladly took one of the fine Havanas.

Grant offered him his half-burned match, and Phil leaned over, puffing his cigar to life.

Grant studied him intently as Phil lit his cigar, sat back, and exhaled.

He missed Sherman. There was a man he did indeed confide in. Many was the night the two sat up and talked. Talk of plans, talk of what had been and what they still intended to do.

McPherson had filled a bit of that role since coming east, but poor James was dead. An hour ago, under flag of truce so that wounded from both sides could be pulled back from the riverbank, a message had come through the lines informing him of that fate, and also that before he died James had married his beloved Emily.

"Wish I'd given him that furlough back in the spring," Grant sighed. "Perhaps now there might at least be a child on the way."

"What, sir?"

"Nothing. Nothing, Phil."

He was silent again and grateful that Phil understood the need. When he was silent, he was in no mood to-talk, and idle chatter to fill the dead air was an annoyance.

The stars were not out as brightly tonight, a thin high haze moving in. Rain in a day or so, he sensed, perhaps a lot.
Can't change that, though, so don't worry about it.

The day had been a hard one. Phil was right, especially for Ord.

His entire corps was a hollowed-out wreck. He had lost more men in this one assault than during the entire siege of Vicksburg. Where an entire corps had been this morning, barely a division could be mustered now, and those men were beat to hell, disorganized, brigades down to regiments, and regiments to companies. It had been the bloodiest assault he had ever launched.

And he did not regret it, though Ord was all but shattered by the experience.

He had seen it himself when he rode across the river late in the afternoon to watch the fight up close. Yes, he had lost ten thousand or more, but Lee had been forced to match him, and from all accounts the dreaded Jubal Early Division was smashed beyond any hope of repair, along with a couple of brigades from one of one of Beauregard's divisions.

He had presented to Lee a different kind of fight today, one of sustained firepower on the rest of the front. No mad charges, no standing out in the open in volley lines while Lee's own men were dug in, as at Fredericksburg. Instead, just a continual grinding down of fire.

Lee's men had most likely fired off nearly as much ammunition as they had at Union Mills, but with only one-tenth the impact along the rest of the line. His own supply officers were already sending in reports that two million more rounds of small-arms ammunition would have to be sent up during the night, and the wagons crossing over the pass were indeed hauling that and more.

How many millions did Lee have?

Hunt reported firing nearly eleven thousand rounds of bolt and case shot. One of his staff, earlier in the day, had laughed while reporting to Grant that he had overheard Hunt shouting, "Make every shot count, boys; it's costing the taxpayers two dollars and sixty-seven cents a round."

He stirred, looking back at the fire.

"Yes, the colored division," Grant said, and Phil did not respond, still puffing on his cigar.

"Move them down to support on this side of the Monocacy before dawn. I think our General Lee over there will counterstrike us, and it will come straight in at Ord, to try and push him back across the river and then break our right flank."

"Yes, sir."

"I want your blackbirds to be ready to go in. They claim they have something to prove. Now's their chance." "I'll see to it personally." "Phil." "Yes, sir?"

"I spotted you today down in the railroad cut, right in the middle of it. I thought I told you to avoid recklessly exposing yourself."

Phil smiled, but then shook his head.

"Sir, I'm sorry. Three days ago those boys were under Burnside, and they still are fiercely loyal to him. I needed them to see I was different somehow, and that meant getting up into the thick of it. I figured the risk was worth it."

"I know, we all do it at times. But I lost James. Ord, well, I think poor Edward is a bit shattered at the moment. Banks, he's an amateur, the same as Sickles, a political appointee I find myself saddled with, and come a crisis I'll personally see to the running of his corps. So I need to count on one of my corps commanders, and it seems that's falling on your shoulders. Don't do the same tomorrow. Keep back a bit."

Phil smiled.

"Of course not, sir."

Three Miles East of
Monocacy function 11:45 P.M.

Go
d damn it, I can't believe these damn things are still here," Cruickshank groaned. He walked the length of three trains still loaded with the pontoon bridges, cursing and swearing every inch of the way, his staff and old teamster crews following behind.

Their train from Baltimore had indeed made good time, as McDougal had promised, until it stalled ten miles from the front line. A locomotive had run out of fuel on the single-track line and ground to a halt ahead of them, and then three more had stalled. Judah Benjamin had left him there, finding a horse to go forward to report to Lee.

A scattering of men, most of them skulkers from the rear, plus a few squadrons of cavalry troopers who had rounded the skulkers up, were busy scavenging the countryside for enough wood to get the boilers going again, the troopers driven to distraction because every time they turned their backs the skulkers dropped their loads and attempted to disappear into the surrounding woods.

"Find some teams. God damn it, where are the teams of mules we sent up with these trains?"

The men stood around silent. The boxcars which had been carrying the mules were open, all the mules gone, most likely commandeered by some other unit.

"Find some damn teams!" Cruickshank roared.

"Major Cruickshank?"

A courier approached out of the dark, riding, of all things, a mule.

Cruickshank glared up at him, the courier lit up by a railroad lantern he was carrying.

"It's General Cruickshank now!" he roared.

The courier stood his ground.

"General Longstreet sent me out here hours ago to look for you." He paused. "Sir. May I inquire where you have been? I was told you would be with these pontoon bridges."

"No, damn you, you may not inquire. Now what the hell do you want?"

"Sir, I carry orders from General Longstreet to you, informing you of his wish that you begin to move these bridges south toward either Nolands or Hauling Ferry."

"Where the hell is that?"

"Sir, I don't know. I assume, sir, you being a general, you would know."

That was too much. Cruickshank walked up to the man, grabbed him by the leg, and lifting, tipped him right off his mount.

The lantern went flying, shattering on the adjoining track, spreading flame, which gradually winked out.

"Damn you, sir. I demand satisfaction," the courier cried.

"Look me up after the war is over," Cruickshank snapped.

"I shall inform General Longstreet of this affront."

"And he'll laugh in your face, sonny. Now go tell good old Pete that when he can find me two hundred and fifty mules, I'll start moving these bridges."

"I'll tell him that and more."

"You do that."

The humiliated officer went to grab the reins of his mule. "Don't touch him! That mule belongs to me now."

"The hell you say."

Cruickshank reached for his revolver, half drawing it. "He's mine, so start walking."

The officer glared at him angrily, the men around Cruickshank laughing. He turned on his heels and strode off.

Cruicksha
nk handed t
he mule off to one of his men.

"Now go find two hundred and forty-nine more," he said.

He leaned back against one of the flatcars bearing a pontoon bridge, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the bottle given to him by McDougal. He had not dared to drink it in front of a secretary of state, and, for that matter, he was in no mood to share it with any of his men, so he waited till they wandered off, most of them chuckling about the fight.

Once alone, he uncorked it and drained it down neat, crawled up under a pontoon, and was soon asleep, oblivious to the column of troops that began to pass by, swarming over the railroad tracks, falling in along a road on the opposite side, and heading south.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Buckeystown Ford

August 28 3:00 A.M.

T
hat's it, sir." Jeb Stuart reined in, the forward scout by his side gesturing straight ahead. He dismounted, and followed the scout. The two of them walked slowly, almost as if they were actors tiptoeing across the stage.

The gesture struck Jeb as a bit absurd, but he followed the scout's lead, not sure how far off they were from the river. Sound was drowned out by cascading water. An overcast was beginning to set in, stars dimming, and it was hard to see much, but he could see glimpses of what he assumed was a dam, the white sparkle of water flowing over it. "Mill on the other side," the scout whispered. They walked thus for another hundred yards, and then Jeb saw some of his men, lying to either side of the road, as if resting, but they were spread out into a skirmish line. The scout crouched down, Jeb joining him. "Can you make out the ford?"

Yes, he could, low flowing water, again sparkles of white, they were almost at the edg
e of
the creek. Enough starlight still shone through, and he thought he caught a glimpse of someone on the other side.

"Hey, who's over there?"

It was a Yank on the other side, and Jeb froze.

"I'll shoot. Now who is over there?" The scout stood up.

"Don't get riled up, Yank, we're just sitting over here, same as you on your side." There was a pause. "What you doing, reb?"

"Sent down to picket this place, make sure you don't try and sneak across here. And you?" "The same." "Got any coffee, Yank?" Again a pause.

"Yup. Trade you a pound of coffee mixed with real sugar for a pound of tobacco."

"Sounds good to me, Yank. Let me ask my boys for their tobacco. I'll be right over."

Jeb grinned. This scout knew his business. Now standing in the open he walked down the skirmish line.

"Come on, boys, give it up," the scout whispered.

Some of the men cursed softly, one of them complaining they already had plenty of coffee, but the scout took their pouches.

'Take that hat off, sir," the scout whispered as he strolled past Jeb. "You stick out like a sore thumb with it on. And crawl down a bit closer so you can listen."

The scout went down to the water's edge and held his hands up.

"Meet you halfway, Yank, and no foolery now." "Promise, reb."

The scout splashed into the creek and Jeb watched him carefully. It wasn't more than knee-deep. The scout slowed, luring the Yank closer to their side.