Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 (56 page)

Cruickshank just lowered his head.

"God damn it, sir, I'd like you to accept my resignation," he said wearily.

"What?"

"I'm resigning from this goddamn army. I'm a mule skinner, sir. First you gave me these damn bridges, which I don't know a damn thing about. Then you give me the goddamn railroad, which I definitely knew nothing about, and then you give me these sons of bitches again. Now you're screaming at me to build a goddamn road and a goddamn bridge, which I definitely know goddamn nothing about, goddamnit. I quit."

Longstreet looked down at him and actually smiled.

"You know, Cruickshank, if I wasn't so desperate, I think I'd shoot you."

There was no malice in his voice, just a sad weariness.

"I'd consider it a favor, General."

He dismounted and motioned for Cruickshank to follow him. The two walked off, Longstreet pulling out two cigars, lighting his own and handing the other to Cruickshank.

"We're trapped," Longstreet said softly. "The army is a
shambles. I got men from two other corps mixed in with mine right now. My supply train is abandoned. Except for Scales, every one of my division commanders and over half my brigade commanders are down.

"If you don't get that bridge across and damn quick, we are lost, and with us gone, the cause is lost. Do you understand that?"

Cruickshank could not reply. Strange his feelings for this man. There had been times in the past, if given the chance, he'd have kicked his brains out, not even giving him a chance to duel, and then other times, like now, when he couldn't help but like him.

"I'll see what I can do," Cruickshank replied.

"Good, then, damn you. Part of it is my fault. I was too focused on the fight to take this place. I already should have had more men clearing the approach. You'll have a brigade of men working on this shortly."

"A brigade? Three thousand men."

"In this army," Longstreet replied sadly, "a brigade now means five hundred men. Get to work."

Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia
Five Miles Southeast of Poolesv
ille

4.45pm

All
around was chaos. Men were staggering back up the road they had forced-marched down but four hours earlier in their drive toward Darnestown, "Damns-town" as they were now calling it.

Supply wagons had been abandoned, pushed to the side of the road to clear the way. Men were told to pull out what they could, especially ammunition. Wounded and exhausted men were mounting horses and mules being cut loose from the traces.

How many times in the past have I seen this
?
Lee thought.
But always it was the other side. Always it was their wagons abandoned, their exhausted men lying by the side of the road, their men collapsing into disorder and disintegration
.
"General Lee!"

A courier came up, one of Stuart's men, a newly promoted regimental commander, Colonel Duvall, followed by several dozen troopers.

"Sir, we got a crossing. The bridge is being built even now," Duvall cried excitedly.

"Where?"

"Sir, it's a rough track down to it. A lot of your men have already marched past the turnoff. General Longstreet, as ordered, tried for Edwards Ferry but it was too heavily fortified. He finally pushed down, about halfway between Edwards Ferry and Seneca. It's a good spot, sir, island halfway across."

Lee looked over at Walter and smiled. "Pete came through for us," he said.

Walter, expressionless, could only nod in agreement.

"I want a solid rear guard to be maintained. Slow down the Army of the Potomac behind us. If need be, sacrifice some of the artillery to do so. We need breathing space. I'm going up to see what we can do with this."

Lee set off with Duvall. In the column he spotted Judah Benjamin and reined in beside him.

"Good news, Mr. Secretary," Lee announced. "We have a crossing."

Judah nodded wearily but said nothing, silently falling in by Lee's side as the general continued to push his way up the road.

The Crossing
5:45
P.M.

S
ome semblance of organization was taking hold. Hundreds of men were dragging logs, brush, anything to lay down to create a roadway from the canal to the
crossing. The sixth pontoon was in the water, the bridge now extending out over sixty yards. The sergeant in charge of construction was hurrying back and forth, urging men on. The crews were starting to learn the routine of maneuvering a boat into place, anchor it, span the gap with the heavy thirty-foot-long stringers, bolt them down on to the gunwale of the boat, then start laying the cross ties of heavy planking.

Cruickshank stood at the edge of the bridge watching as the sixth boat was steered down from where it had been pushed in forty yards upstream, men along the gunwale using bits of board and planking as oars and poles.

The current was stronger as they approached the middle of the river, the maneuvering more difficult, men shouting at each other, contradicting each other. The anchor lines went out and the boat stopped, but it was not lined up correctly, having drifted a dozen feet below the axis of the bridge. There was more swearing and yelling. A couple of men jumped over the side, but the river was too deep and they were swept away, one disappearing, the other floundering back to shore.

Men up at the bow pulled on the anchor lines, gradually hauling the boat into a near alignment, a couple of feet off center but about as close as they could get.

"Stringers!"

Cruickshank stepped off the bridge and down into the pontoon bridge, feeling it rock and sway as men ran up, pushing and struggling. Men aboard the anchored boat threw lines over, the lines were lashed to the ends of the stringers, and between the crew on the next boat out pulling and men on the edge of the bridge pushing, the stringer went across and was locked into place.

More men came up, two to each plank, dropping the cross ties into place, and another thirty feet was spanned.

The next boat was now easing into the river and Cruickshank actually felt that for once he was pulling something off correctly. Every man about him knew what was at stake, and though more than one man finally had to stagger off to one side to collapse from total exhaustion, others filled in.

The survival of the Army of Northern Virginia was as dependent on them now as it had ever been on any volley line.

To one flank the rattie of musketry continued, Scales holding back the Yankees to the west.

H
ancock grinned as the team of black laborers, a hundred of them to each piece, urged on by Jim Bartlett, dragged two of the thirty-pound Parrotts up the slope. The horses had been left behind, but the men were here to help maneuver the weapons into place. Others were hauling up the shells and wooden tubes containing the ten pounds of powder needed for each shot. Two more guns were on the next barge, teams of men struggling to off-load them.

The first two guns were rolled into place. The range was just about a mile, long shooting for a three-inch ordnance rifle, but well within the capability of the heavier pieces.

A captain of artillery came up to Hancock's side and saluted. Hancock merely pointed down to the river. "Lovely," the captain exclaimed, "just lovely." "Let's try some case shot for openers, nine-second fuses!" The crews set to work, the captain standing behind each piece, carefully setting the rear sight in place, gunnery sergeants following his directions as they dropped elevation screws.

Powder was rammed in, followed by the shells. The captain stood back and looked over at Hancock. "Care for a shot, General?"

Hancock grinned and limped over, picking up the lanyard. He caught Jim's eye.

"Mr. Bartlett, after all you've done, why don't you take the other one."

Jim nervously walked up to the breech of the gun, the sergeant looking at him over with a jaundiced eye, but then under the gaze of the general he relented and handed it over.

"Just step back till it's taut," the sergeant said. "When the captain gives the command, step back hard, jerk, and turn away."

Jim did as directed, the line taut in his hand. "Fire in sequence so we can judge the shot," the captain announced.

"Number one!" He pointed toward Hancock. "Fire!"

The thirty-pounder leapt back with a sharp recoil, a tongue of flame bursting from the muzzle. The noise was stunning. "Number two!"

Jim gripped the lanyard and thought of his son and grandson, wondering what they would say of this moment. Though he and his men had not been in the fight directly, still here, at least, was one shot that might count.

"Fire!"

He stepped back, pulled, but nothing happened and several men laughed good-naturedly. "Harder!" the sergeant yelled.

This time he threw what little weight he had into it, and nearly stumbled backward. The gun leapt back with a roar.

Grinning, he looked over at Hancock, who gave him a friendly salute.

"Something to tell your grandkids about," Hancock shouted.

C
ruickshank looked up, heard the shell screaming in, a geyser of water erupting about fifty yards upstream. Men working along the bridge flattened themselves. Seconds later a second shot, this one overhead, a sudden flash, water around the bridge spraying up from the cascade of case shot, several men dropping. A heavy shell fragment slashed into one of the boats, seconds later someone was crying they had a leak.

Cruickshank stood up, looking to the west, and saw the two puffs of smoke from a distant rise.

Must be thirty-pounders
,
he thought, and then a bit forward there were more puffs. Seconds later half a dozen lighter shells rained in, five of the six scattering wide, dropping into the muddy embankment, one kicking up a geyser
in midstream, but one striking and exploding on the embankment of the canal. "Watch it!"

He turned to look back. The crew of the seventh boat had ducked down when the first two shells came in and now the boat was broaching, turning sideways. Carried on the current it slammed into the sixth boat, which had just been anchored.

The anchor lines of the sixth boat let go from the impact, and now the entire front of the bridge started to buckle, bending, groaning. Men ran about shouting. He could feel the entire bridge swaying beneath him.

"Drop the front end!" someone screamed; it was the sergeant in command.

The men in the sixth boat worked frantically, trying to pull the bolts from the stringers that locked them to the gunnel, and then the gunnel itself just ripped away, stringers dropping into the water, half sinking, the sixth and seventh boats now wrapped around each other and drifting downstream.

The pressure on the bridge eased off, and it straightened, planking that had connected the fifth boat to the sixth dropping into the water until only the two stringers were left, bobbing in the water.

"Damn all to hell." Cruickshank sighed as he sat down an
d buried his head in his hands.

C
ruickshank!" It was Pete, coming toward him. He didn't even bother to look up.

5:45 P.M.

T
his is it?" Lee asked as Duvall reined in and pointed down a narrow farm lane. "Yes, sir."

Lee looked at the road. It was barely a dirt track, a path
way used occasionally by some farmer gathering wood for the winter, perhaps cut through years ago when the forests here were first harvested and now barely used. It was apparent, though, that it had seen recent heavy use, the track muddy, torn up by the passage of troops.

"The road General Longstreet used was a bit farther over, but this is the quickest way down to where the bridge is going in."

The men filing along the road back toward Poolesville had been passing this point for at least an hour or two. He would have to send someone forward to stop and reverse them and it would be a mad tangle, for the rest of his column five miles back would have to turn off here as well.

Lee looked around, watching as men continued to file past.

He turned to a cavalry sergeant who along with several other troopers stood by the side of the road.

"Halt the column, Sergeant," Lee said. "Have them stop right here, and pass the word back up the line for the men to fall out for rest and to eat. I should be back within the hour."

He turned down the track, Duvall in the lead, his men drawing pistols as they rode into the woods. From nearly all directions could be heard distant fire, the thumping of artillery, joined now by a deep rumble ahead.

6:15 P.M.

'The light was rapidly failing, the combination of the sun setting and the storm clouds continuing to build up to the west

Two more boats were out in the river, being jockeyed into place. Yet another boat was almost across to the island, Longstreet suggesting that they start building the bridge from both sides, something that Cruickshank knew he should have thought of, but exhaustion was completely overwhelming him.

After the shock of the first two shells coming in, the men had set to work as if the enemy fire was a goad. Watchers
kept an eye on the distant ridge, and the moment they saw the flash of what were now four of the thirty-pounders, a warning went up.

Another boat had been destroyed, as it was being rolled up to be off-loaded into the river, taking a nearly direct hit and just shattering. The two boats that had washed downstream were slowly being kedged up, and were now waiting to be shifted into place.

Another shell came in, this one nearly striking the bridge at midsection, the pontoons rocking and swaying from the impact, another boat springing a leak, a man tearing his jacket off to use as a plug.

Nearly all of the pontoon train was now parked in the flat land below the canal, crews manhandling the boats off rather than waiting for each to be backed into the water, and simply dragged along and pushed in. More leaks were being sprung but the time saved was worth it, bailers would be set to work in each once they were in place.

The bridge was pushing forward. They were out to their tenth boat n
ow
well past midstream, the crews on the other side within hailing distance, one of them shouting that they only had to span seventy-five yards or so once across the island. The good news was that infantry could wade the last few yards through chest-deep water to Virginia soil once they were across the island.

Additional boatloads of men were already being sent across, armed with axes and shovels, to clear a road across the island and start work on the approach on the far side.

The eleventh boat was anchored into place, two more shells detonating over the river, more men dropping, but the work continued. Stringers were run across, planking laid. A man leapt off the boat on the far side and stood in the water, bracing against the current!

"Its getting shallower!" he shouted, a ragged cheer rising up from the makeshift engineers.

6:15 PM.

G
eneral Longstreet!" Pete looked up and to his amazement saw Lee approaching, guided by Duvall. "Sir!"

Pete rode the last few feet to Lee's side.

Lee said nothing for a moment, looking down at the bridge spanning the Potomac and a shell exploding among the wagons where the pontoons were being unloaded.